


The Sparkle Lounge

by 97_Decibel_Freak



Category: Def Leppard
Genre: 1st person pov, Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M, Narrative, Slightly Dystopian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-02-25 15:34:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 42,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2626955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/97_Decibel_Freak/pseuds/97_Decibel_Freak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So here's the true question: How many musicians does it take to pay monthly rent? Well, two, including Phil and I, and if you've got a really shabby place and a flatmate's generous boyfriend to help every once in awhile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Overture

**Author's Note:**

> After much contemplation, and listening to Songs from the Sparkle Lounge on repeat, I was somehow able to come up with the idea for this. Takes place in a not very far-fetched AU, although I tried to throw in as much canonical symbolism as tasteful. Kind of experimental. Let me know what you think!

The dragging sound of heavy fabric sliding upon a slick surface echoed throughout the auditorium. Gears grinded with age and rust as the crimson curtains were pulled back from the stage to reveal the lone protagonist. A light filters through the dusty air and illuminates a circle around him. He is a man, or rather, a boy; with a round face and large blue eyes and chocolate brown curls: the Epitome of Innocence. In his arms is a guitar, and he is smiling to the audience in the naive manner that can only be expressed by an individual not fully-aware of the situation.

A figure moved in the darkness beside him and the spotlight flickered; and for a split second the boy's smile faltered and his eyes broke contact. The sound of slight movement was as audible as a gunshot, echoing on the infinite and empty seats. 

What is a better venue for an audience of ghosts?

 

_The Savage_

 

**In a near-distant future, unfortunately**

 

Is it human nature to ask too many questions? I would hope so, because it seems that I've been a bit more inquisitive lately but I've already got enough abnormalities to deal with. 

"Sometimes I wonder why I am here" is a thought that I sometimes (often) say aloud, like just right now. I'm sitting in front of those mirrors with the fluorescent lights bordering the top; the ones that accentuate every blemish and pore. Not to sound conceited, but I think my reflection looks the same despite the lighting. Although I must not be _that_ conceited, I think I look equally as awkward in front of every mirror. I've got one of those faces I suppose. One of those "looks seventeen but is actually twenty-one" faces. It can come in handy though, sometimes.

I'm putting on eyeliner, because why the bloody hell not? My eyes are big enough already, but the Mutt tells me that it makes the blue stand out or some sod. Because the people come to see my pretty boyish looks and gorgeous locks, not hear my song, huh?

"Did'ya say somethin', Sav?" Phil's groggy, 'I shagged my boyfriend last night' voice is audible from the opposite side of the room. He's laying on one of the two beds in the flat, and he's got his arm draped over the lump in front of him and his other hand running through his short, bed-matted fair hair. 

"No," I simply reply. For a person who's got a lot going on inside, I've never got much to say, it seems. 

Phil gives me one of those sleepy, dopey smiles. He's a charming lad, honest. A bit on the shorter side, though, but he's got a pretty, pointed face and raspy London accent. It sometimes boggles me that he's only been with one guy, and is still with him for that matter. Not that he would seem like the guy to jump from relationships, he's just attractive enough to not have much of a problem doing it.

"Are you performin' tonight?" Phil asks while getting out of bed.

"Yeah," I reply, applying the eyeliner and looking at Phil through the reflection of the mirror. He kind of nods and heads straight to the bathroom; the sound of the door closing and the realisation of the half-empty bed causing the sheet-covered lump to stir until the fabric cascaded off and revealed Steve.

Steve was something else, I swear. I sometimes have to remind myself that he's a real person, instead of some form of earthbound deity or supernatural creature. Not to say that he doesn't have faults, which he does, but he's a compendium of perfect. If you know what I mean. A controlled demeanor, yet not too distant. Very attractive and not a total dick. Phil's a lucky man. 

Well, I suppose Steve is too.

As I finish with the eyeliner, I could hear the sound of sputtering water and the creak of rusty pipes struggling to come to life through the cracked and pale tan walls. Steve runs a hand through his platinum mane until his finger catches a knot, which he then works apart with an expression of dazed concentration. 

"G'mornin', Sav," Steve eventually says.

"It's actually noon, but thanks anyway."

I've only seen Steve move so fast twice in my life before.

"Shitshitshitshit." Steve is scurrying around the room, looking for his trousers I suppose. He finds them and has them halfway on when he's halfway out the door. "Tell Phil I had to leave for work," Steve says breathlessly before shutting the door.

Ah yes, the toils of the average civilian. Although, at least his income is a bit more, er, stable. The music business has never been that reliable, and when the economy fails it's the arts that takes another blow to the gut. So here's the true question: How many musicians does it take to pay monthly rent? Well, two, including Phil and I, and if you've got a really shabby place and a flatmate's generous boyfriend to help every once in awhile. 

There's a stained, time-worn sheet of paper taped to the mirror and I have a habit of looking at it even though I have every word memorized. A work schedule, if you will. A work schedule that is posted outside of the doors of the Lounge and in a select few non-employee's possessions, that is. It simply says that tonight's my night, which is Monday, and as well as Thursday. Phil's my opener tonight, and has his own night on Wednesday. There are various other names of musical acquaintances. 

Steve technically works for the Lounge, and receives a ridiculously small royalty, mainly because the already minuscule percentage has to be split between him and one of his mates who he collaborates with. Steve and so-and-so are co- and occasionally primary song writers of the performers of the Lounge. Co-, for me and Phil at least, who always bring our own cards to the table as well. 

It's actually starting to bug me now that I think of it, about Steve's mate. They're flatmates and partners in crime yet I can't remember his damn name. Now that I really think about it, I don't even think I've seen him in person. _Him_. Hell, it could be a bird for all I know. 

Phil comes out of the bathroom, clad in nothing save for a towel and his hair dripping all over the bloody carpet. 

"What's Steve's mate's name? Y'know, his flatmate?" I blurt out as soon as he comes into view because it's honestly killing me by now. 

"Joe," Phil replies quickly, examining the room with a look of worried confusion. "Where'd Steve run off to?" Ah. Joe. The single syllable has saved me from a few hours of distracted and uncomfortable strain of the memory. 

"Work." I say it immediately and distant, because now my mind has convinced itself that it knows what this Joe looks like and I'm beginning to get quite annoyed with my selective memory. 

Phil becomes his nonchalant self once again, and is rummaging through a drawer for underwear and god knows what. 

"Have I ever met 'im?" Which is a significantly less creepy question than simply asking what the bugger looks like. 

Phil drops the towel and begins changing, his eyebrows raised in a thoughtful manner. "Ah, probably. He's the really tall and leggy lad, got those crazy green eyes and is obviously a dyed blond."

"Thanks, Phil. Really narrows it down, 'specially since I'm aware of everyone's hair colouring habits."

He rolls his eyes. "Are you done with the mirror, yet?"

 

**Several hours later**

 

To say that The Sparkle Lounge is in the bad side of town is an understatement. It's located in an abandoned cinema, one of the last to be boarded up in Sheffield, in fact. Due to it's tendency to stray away from most illegal activities, it could be easily said that the Lounge is merely a fleck of gold submerged in a cesspool of seedy bars, clubs, and crumbling apartments. 

Home sweet home.

Phil and I are walking down the sidewalks in our typical battle-ready stances. That is, with a scabbard or two visible.

When I was a kid, I would never expect to see two flamboyant lads carrying around weapons causally like the way we do now. We do it because, well, that's what you've got to do in times like this, in places like this, with people running around like this. Like that bird I nearly just ran into. She gave me a look that I thought only the sadistic creeps in movies expressed. She also had the sheath of a pistol visible. 

And that's why we do what we do.

The distance between the Lounge and our flat is only a block away, which isn't too bad. Although, it is bad enough that Steve usually has to give us a ride back home after since our performance ends around midnight. 

We're walking rather fast, which isn't unusual, and I keep having to remind myself to slow down because Phil's strides don't cover nearly as much distance as mine. It's not that we're running short on time or anything; the sun sets in about half an hour and the strip becomes a new kind of hell when it's dark. 

 

I just nearly died and you missed it. Or, should I say, I was the one who missed it. As Phil and I were approaching the entrance, looking suave as hell, one of the marquee letters-the E in particular- unlatched itself and fell, missing me by the mere inches. 

This is a dangerous business, I tell you. 

 

The Lounge is one of those places that could serve as a perfect example of the term: "don't judge a book by it's cover". It might be notorious for AWOL marquee letters and fading paint, but as soon as you walk inside... Well, it's different. Everything is magenta and violet and gold and all the shades in between; bright and new. Because of it's past purpose of being a cinema, it still has the ticket booth and the counters and four theatres. All still being used, mind you, but not always for its original intentions. 

We immediately enter Theatre I and begin setting up the stage. I'm tuning the guitars and Phil's dragging out amps and scrounging for input cables when I decide to voice an idea that's been humming for awhile now.

"I think I'm gonna use an acoustic bass tonight."

"What... Instead of a guitar?"

Phil looks horribly confused to the point of disgust. 

"Yeah..." I begin, rather sheepishly now because I didn't particularly expect that kind of reaction. "Whenever you got the lone singer, you always expect a guitar, y'know? You never expect some guy by himself with a bass..." I'm doing that damn thing now because I can't help it. I tip my head slightly and let my fringe fall in front of my eyes and make myself look busy with whatever's in my hands because I get embarrassed so easily. Just from talking a bit too much. Bloody damn habits. And then I get more embarrassed from getting embarrassed. It's ridiculous. 

Phil's used to it by now and isn't phased. "Once a bassist, always a bassist, I guess. You can't really do chords with a bass, though."

I shrug. "People are going to just focus on my singing, anyway. If we had a complete band it would be different."

Phil looks like he's considering it and breaks into a smile. "You know, I've actually thought of that. Steve and I on guitar, you on bass... Steve knows a kid that plays the drums like a god. We could do the vocals, like a duet or somethin' unless we find someone." 

And then the Mutt walked in, golden curls swirling and donning Ray-Bans despite being indoors. He had a bird I'd never seen before at his side. "Start heading backstage, lads, I'm opening up the doors."

 

I have come to the conclusion that the full title of the Lounge was inspired by one of the backstage rooms. I get the idea that the "sparkle" comes from the stage lights and all, but there's one particular backstage quarter that's luster is at an entire different level. 

I'm not quite sure if it's a common knowledge of the musicians here, but Phil and I have a tradition of staying in there before performances. Usually it's during the spare minutes before taking stage, but in other cases it has served as our primary inspiration room. Every performer has a set of keys to the building and I have found that in the solidarity of it's walls, anyone could momentarily find themselves as a maestro. 

Maybe it's the offbeat atmosphere of the room, how there's always the faint sent of incense and a consistently and perfectly blooming sunflower in a vase at one corner-and I have no clue who waters it. In the centre, on top of a ornate rug that looks like it could have belonged to a Romani during the 70's, is a dark magenta, velvet sofa with gold and green designs that has enough give to be multipurpose. Phil and I are sitting on it, cracking our knuckles listening to the muffled sounds of tonight's audience. 

Eventually, there's a knock on the door and we both hear the Mutt say, "Opener needs to head onto stage."

Phil begins to walk to the door, but then gives me a quick glance. "How do I look?"

"Beautiful, love, _absolutely_ gorgeous," I reply with the raised brows and pursed lips of a true aristocrat. Phil rolls his eyes and gives me a naturally enchanting smile that seconds my reply before leaving the room. 

 

I've seen videos of concerts with arenas packed with thousands of people, all singing in unison with raised fists. It is a sea of acquaintances, yet must be the peak of intimacy for human capacity, because never in my life have I seen people as a whole be so serene. Of all of the things that my birth narrowly missed, it's the golden age of music that I reminiscence about the most. Nostalgic, yet lacking the experience and memory. 

This is no arena, and I have concluded that I will never see one. I peer off into a drying puddle rather than a sea. A theatre packed tightly at quarter-capacity, with an audience containing the dying breath of humanity's creativity and sanity. Excuse my melodrama. 

Nevertheless, it's nice. Quaint. The air of serenity is present and the rush of performing as well. Then again, what I feel may not even be close to authenticity, but I don't really care. It's a thing called passion, you know. I am the Hester Prynne of modern society. A savage amongst worse. 

The thirty or so people of my audience have their eyes glued to me as I walk upon the stage, acoustic bass in hand. I was able to hear through the walls that Phil had warmed them up well. I find a stool and sit upon it, and without warning dive into a set of Bb eighth notes. This will be my first time performing this number live; Phil and Steve and I had only perfected it a few nights ago, with the assistance of the non-present Joe, of course. 

There's always a slight look of surprise from the first-time audience members whenever I begin to sing. I always assumed it was because of my pitch, which is naturally high and clear. I usually perform after Phil as well, who sings with even more rasp than which he speaks with. I inwardly praise the Mutt frequently for the way he sets stuff like that up. He must value diversity and the need of idiosyncrasy, the "shock factor", on the same levels as the talent itself.

I reach the chorus and I can already see heads bobbing. I think I can relate with most performers in the way that I feed off of participation. I love it. I especially love it when they love it. 

There's a segment of the song that we as a group rehearsed but I can't do now because my hands are busy with the bass. During the chorus is a clap, just a short, simple "clap-clap". I can imagine the song being a hit and arenas with thousands of people doing that along to the song. Clap-clap. I forgot to ask who's idea it was to add that to the song, probably Steve's pal now that I think of it. 

And then, as if on cue, I hear it. Clap-clap. I'm singing and at the same time examining the audience for who did it because Steve is at work and I know for certain that Phil's waiting backstage, but they have disappeared until the chorus returns and I'm not familiarized with the song enough yet to just skip a verse for the sake of experimentation.

Then I see _him_. 

In the dimness amongst the audience seats I can see a motley mop of cheaply coloured blonde and brown locks. Phil was right, it was damn obvious. There's a slight movement of the lights and I catch a glimpse of glimmering green eyes. Second row. Third from the right. And he's breaking Theatre rules by having his trainer-clad feet propped up on the back of the seat in front of him.


	2. Movement I: Divertimento

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now, I'm going to be upfront and honest by saying that I'm not the suavest, smoothest guy in the world. Although, I do have the capacity of control and not making a total fool of myself. Then again, this is the first time I've been within elbow space of this lad and I'm already feeling the uneasy, lurching feeling that accompanies when my movements and emotions may not be as predictable as planned.

Phil and I are sitting on the edge of the stage, legs hanging and casually chatting while we wait for Steve to show up. It's been about half an hour and the audience has left, and the shaggy-haired electrical engineer / janitor is checking the floor for discarded bottles and cigarettes and whatnot. She sees the third seat from the right, front row. There's streaks of mud on the back where Joe's trainers were. 

If all of the contempt for humanity could be compacted into a single expression, it wouldn't look too different from the one she wore now.

"I think I saw Steve's mate earlier... In the audience," I say. 

Phil breaks into a short-lived smile. "About that, actually..." He happens to glance to the exit while talking, and his face lights up and his words trail off and I know that Steve must have shown up. 

Look at that. I'm right. Steve is standing at the theatre exit, the far brighter lighting of the lobby shining through and silhouetting him. He has a hand on his hip and is tapping his foot in a comically impatient way. 

Phil and Steve immediately latch onto each other and don't let go, even as they're walking. Steve's got an arm around Phil's waist and they're jabbering in a dialect that would be unintelligible to even the greatest linguist, but they could understand each other just fine. A flurry of colliding accent and timbre. They're disgusting.

Yet, I find myself like the goddess Hera, and I'm sadly aware of it. I walk several steps behind with the air of distant and judgmental spitefulness, yet actually feeling nothing but envy. 

 

Steve drives a dingy, fading indigo pick-up truck. I'm already bracing myself for the distinct scent of wet hay and oil that stains the interior of the cab, with its cloth seats that are several shades of tan, all of which don't match the original colour. He must've left it running because the fog-lights are cutting through the dark of the parking alley. The rumble of the V6 has as much gusto as the discarded bottle that I just kicked, sending it into the darkness of the alley with the only notion of its continued existence being the sound of shattering glass. 

For maybe a hair's width of a second I wonder why Steve left his keys in the ignition of a vehicle in an area like this, which he never does, but I'm a tad bit in a off mood and don't feel like trying to put an effort to figure his reason. Not until I instinctively climb into the back seats, closing the door behind me and turning to my left to find myself looking back to a slightly-familiar face do I mentally utter, "So _that's_ why".

Now, I'm going to be upfront and honest by saying that I'm not the suavest, smoothest guy in the world. Although, I do have the capacity of control and not making a total fool of myself. Then again, this is the first time I've been within elbow space of this lad and I'm already feeling the uneasy, lurching feeling that accompanies when my movements and emotions may not be as predictable as planned. 

I'm just going to blame the uneasy on his eyes, because once again Phil is right: that is the craziest shade of green I've ever seen. Slanted, like a cat's, and with enough depth to make me worry for my own well-being. He's giving me a smug smirk, similar to the expression he had during my performance. 

There's something off, though. 

There's a popular saying that eyes are doors to the soul, but all I see are mirrors. 

My instincts are switching into fight-or-flight mode, with a preference for the latter. 

But then he smiled, and damn did he have a nice smile, and dimples too. He can't be that bad, right? There is still a churning in my gut, though, and a muffled voice in the back of my head telling me--more like screaming, actually--for me to get out of there. 

"You're Sav, right?"

Oh bloody Mother Mary mother of Jesus Christ, dear Lord of the heavens, that voice- 

"Y-yeah."

"I'm Joe. I 'eard you perform earlier," he shoots another dazzling smile. His gestures were practically oozing with flirtatious intentions, yet there was an underlining manipulative streak; or at least, something I couldn't outright analyze. A challenge. "I really liked it, especially the acoustic bass. Kinda refreshing, I suppose." 

I get hold of my emotions and my instincts must have calmed down or realised that this wasn't a dangerous situation. "Thanks. I was kind of hoping for that reaction." Some of his fake-blond fringe gets into his eyes and he brushes it away. Maybe it was the lighting, but I am starting to think that the cheaply done hair colouring job wasn't too unappealing. I clear my throat and glance away for a moment. I don't want to make it too obvious that I was checking out the lad, and I am still trying to reason with myself if I should be. 

"You were clapping during the chorus, right?"

He raises a dark eyebrow and a proud smirk pulls at his lips. "Couldn't help it, it was my idea to add that after all."

Ah, another question answered. I may have checked one off of my mental list, yet have added about a million to it since I've gotten into the truck. 

I glance to the front of the cab, to look through the windshield, and notice that we are moving. I hadn't even heard Phil and Steve get in, or feel any acceleration of the truck for that matter. And, to make things even more surreal, they were in the middle of having rather loud conversation. 

 

We pull up to our flat less than five minutes or so later. Steve can't stay tonight and Phil's disappointed but handles it maturely, and leaves off to our storey to do something of the unspecified manner, leaving me alone with Steve and Joe. 

We are standing out on the sidewalk outside of the flat, hands in our jeans pockets and awkwardly shifting weight from one leg to another until Steve gives me a peculiar look, waves a farewell, and leaves to get back into the truck. 

There's a dimming streetlamp about ten feet away, but in the dark it has proven to still be quite bright and is reflecting a motley arrangement of different shades of golden halos in Joe's hair. This is the most illuminated I have ever seen him before, and despite it to still be horrible lighting at its best, has in no way disconcerted my opinion that he is one of the most attractive lads I've ever seen. He's got a wonderful face for one, and don't even get me started on his legs. Christ. Phil was right about this guy being a bit leggy. 

Despite the seemingly intimidating stereotype for very tall, broad shouldered, and slightly-muscular men; he did not seem that way. It's all in the face, I suppose. He appears to have the comprehension of benevolence and gracefulness, accompanied by slight--or maybe even more than slight--arrogance as well, which I can conclude from the smug smirk that seems to be his default expression.

The slight offbeat air to him is still present though. I know Steve well enough to know that the crowd he hangs aren't sociopaths or serial killers, and the lad doesn't seem too bad. Just a bit odd, maybe. 

Well, he's quite far from that, actually.

"It was nice to meet you," Joe eventually says, formal to the point of border-lining awkward, but saving us from an even more prolonged silence nevertheless. We shake hands and then, within another half-minute, he's gone. I'm left standing on the sidewalks, hand slowly returning to its place at my side after being suspended in a farewell wave.

 

I awake the following morning to the faint sound of static accompanied by an unusually loud cadenza of the metropolitan civilization outside.

Phil is laying on his back, eyes to the ceiling with a look of combined worry and deep-thought. It's not until I pay attention to the small radio in the corner of room do I presumably adapt a similar expression. The static-filled voice of our Prime Minister engulfs the room. The shit has hit the fan in foreign affairs, if you will. A declaration of war is pending. Conscription in the process. All the crap that barely missed our generation and it's now hitting us where it hurts. It's not that huge of news though, if you ask me. It's not as if everything that has been happening lately hasn't been on the radio or the small televisions in the pubs or on the tongues of every person worth a damn.

Yet, there's a word that scares me. Conscription. The last time I heard it was in history books about wars that happened a century ago, during World War II and all that sod. 

"Sounds like something out of a bloody movie."

Phil exhales and tilts his head in my direction. "The riots are going to get worse. We might as well pack up and head to the States."

I snort lightly. "Save me a spot in the queue."

 

Tuesdays are typically nice, nevertheless.

Our flat has a small balcony, barely large enough for three people to stand side-by-side. It's large enough for Phil and I to stand with our arms resting on the rail while looking at the tops of the shorter building's roofs and the tips of the cityscape in the distance, though, which does just fine. 

We're usually quiet during this time, silently sipping on whatever and pondering and whatnot. Due to today's news, this had been not much different; but rather instead of a serene air, it was perturbed. 

Phil's squinting his fair eyes and wets his lips before changing the subject that is both on our minds. "What'd you think of him?"

I think _him_ has become the default for Joe between us. 

"He was... interesting."

Phil smirks and angles his head toward me, and toward the sun as well. His left eye is nearly shut from squinting at the direct light, but the right half of his face is shadowed by my form and his eye on that side is opened normally. "He thinks you're a catch."

"Shut up. When were you even told this? I didn't see you two talking once."

Phil rolls his eyes with the "you dolt" expression that was patented especially for yours truly.

"He's seen you before and thinks you're attractive, and has told Steve. He also loves your voice, by the way. He let Steve know after your performance last night. We were actually discussing in the car with you present but you were too lost in that bloke's eyes to even notice."

I honestly had nothing much to respond to that except for a quiet and dawning, " _Oh_ " until I realised that there was something I should bring up that was very relevant. 

"He's gorgeous and all, don't get me wrong, but he kind of scares the hell out of me."

"Don't worry, love, he has the affect on everyone."

 

**The following evening**

Phil, that wanker; he _planned_ this. I know it. 

It just so happens that Steve and Joe don't work today, and it just so happens that Phil and I don't have a show tonight, and it just so happens that we're all having a jam session in one of the studio rooms at the Lounge. 

I'm not one to complain though. I'm actually enjoying the hell out of myself, and it appears so with everyone else as well. Steve and Phil each have an acoustic and a pen and paper within hand's reach, I've got an acoustic bass, and Joe's fumbling around with the grand piano. There hasn't been a lot of progress, though, just run-throughs of covers or previously composed songs, usually accompanied with side-tracking in between and during all of the above. 

Whatever seemingly amount of gracefulness I had assumed of Joe to have is not present when he plays the piano. He obviously knows the notes and how to read the sheets and whatnot, but give him a chord that involves two hands and he's got his fingers stretched awkwardly and his tongue sticking out with a look that he might be overworking himself. God forbid if the song has a chord progression within four beats, because it takes him just as long to re-position his fingers. It's like teaching a kid how to play guitar, and that deer in the headlights look they give you when you (gasp) want them to go from a G major to a C major in the same measure. 

Nevertheless, his look of serious concentration mixed with slight embarrassment is very, very cute. I occasionally glace at him as we play, watching how he cocks his eyebrows while changing chords, how his tongue flicks in and out through his lips, and the heavy-lidded yet focused gaze of his eyes to the sheet music. 

There's a break in-between songs and Phil and Steve begin to chat, and I begin to fumble with some ad-lib melody when I hear a choppy rendition to the intro of a Bowie song.

"Lady Stardust?" I ask, glancing at Joe with my head still slightly tilted downward in the direction of my bass' fretboard. 

Joe nods with an eccentric smile and continues throughout the piece, getting a bit more fluid with each measure. I pick up on the chord progression and begin to play along, something simple since I can't remember the bass-line off of the top of my head. 

And then the lad begins to sing, and he gets off nearly two beats on his playing because of it. I adapt and do my best to go along with his inconsistent tempo, smiling at him in shock and awe at the same time because, damn, he can actually sing. He's getting into it too, and when he hits the chorus his moderate tenor shoots up nearly an octave with a screechy, yet alluring, falsetto. Phil and Steve immediately stop chatting and glance at each other and then at me with the look of pleasant surprise, Phil soundlessly mouthing, "Where the hell did that come from?"

Joe's playing eventually fades off and his casual expression becomes sheepish as he notices the in-awe looks we are giving him. He raises a single eyebrow. 

"What?"

Steve snorts and replies, "I've been living with you for years and you have never sung. Once."

"That's sod. I sing all the time. You've been near me when Bolan plays on the radio-"

"Yeah, but you never once sounded like that." 

During this entire fuss, Phil had given me a look that could be translated easily after knowing a lad for so long. He gestured with his eyes to Joe, which plainly meant, "I want him."

In what way he wants him, I would assume that meant for our "band." Although, I had succumbed internally to Joe's attractive prowess quite easily, I must admit, and I'm not going to assume that Phil couldn't have possibly slipped as well. 

Joe gets up and leaves the room to take a piss or have a drag or whatever, Phil and Steve left to recommence their conversation. The entire jam session I had been feeling a little bit of a need to play on the old grand piano, and I believe now's the best time. 

I'm always fond of the idea of pianos and I know how to play, it's just that I never know what to play. They're big and clunky and expensive as hell to the point where I just like to look at them, or play something softly. For an instrument that could probably take it, I still feel the need for gentility. I dunno. Maybe I would do better with an electric keyboard; something made out of plastics instead of ebony. 

I can hear Joe coming back into the room, and I guess it's the minuscule segment of my mind that likes to show off because I feel the nagging need to play something. So I do; the first thing that I think of, and it doesn't sound half bad. It just so happens to be Queen's "Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy", because they're my favourite band after all, to the point where I have a majority of their material ingrained into my brain. All parts included, mind you.

Phil rolls his eyes and says something to Steve, probably about how fitting the song to this situation or some sod. I doubt Joe would even catch the hint without the lyrics and all the other instruments and whatnot. But then Phil shoots me one of those looks and says, "Hey, Sav, why aren't you singing?" He says it in one of those sassy voices that you usually find kids using whenever they give someone else a dare.

Fucking bastard.

He could have at least said that while I was playing the chorus or during some place I could find where the lyrics match up to easier. I take a wild guess and begin with the lyric " _...let me feel your love heat_ " and I can actually feel my face getting red because Joe is watching.

I'm going to kill Phil after this.

I rethink that, though, because I see Joe out of the corner of my eye and he's got one of those slight smiles that you usually see whenever people witness something of such awesome proportions, to the point where the only thing they could do is smile. I could describe my replying emotion as a confidence boost, but it wasn't quite that. I definitely felt it in my ego, but as well it was followed by one of those heartbeat-skipping, kid-just-got-noticed-by-his-crush-and-is-victory-dancing feelings. I can't explain it. I don't even think I'm sure what it is.

Damn.


	3. Movement II: Chaconne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Empathy is a nice feeling though, it makes me feel more down-to-earth. It's as if my true habitat is in the clouds, but Joe is hanging on to my hand or a piece of my hair or something to keep me grounded, and empathy is what gave him the momentary ability to fly up there to grab hold and yank me down in the first place.

I awake at the ease of my internal clock's casual and pleasant alarm. It's a rare experience and I am grateful for the few mornings it has enhanced. If birds still lived here, I would hear their chirping; if the sun wasn't clouded over by the dark smoke tendrils of pollution and smog, I would feel its rays seep through the sepia-fogged glass of the windowpanes and lick my face. 

Mornings like this turn me into a poet. 

I sit up. On the wall to the right of me, there is the mirror. I instinctively glance at it and find a dazed, foggy-eyed, and matted-haired lad that looks an awfully lot like me stare back. I can see through that same reflection, a sheet-covered lump on the bed to the left of me. A single body, too willowy to be Phil but not lanky enough to be Steve, with the only visible piece being a mess of unruly, poorly-dyed hair. 

Even though I have no absolute idea of how he ended up in that bed, I could make an educated guess. We all went to the pub last night after our jam-session and I ended up leaving early because things were getting a bit melancholy and I could do without any more drama, and the originally planned night of getting plastered ended with being in bed within fifteen minutes of entering the flat. 

I'm truly a rambunctious soul, if you haven't noticed already.

Anyways, this leaves an array of possible reasons of what happened next. I was aware beforehand that Phil was going home with Steve for the night, and being the flatmate of the occasional (frequent) couple wanting a night of... well, couple shenanigans, I could see the possibility of the evening leading to a conversation like this:

Steve: "Joe, lad, you're going to have to crash elsewhere tonight."

Joe: "Why's that?"

Steve: "I need the flat. For sex."

Joe: "The _entire_ flat?"

Steve: "Things get wild. Sorry, mate."

 

No, of course I didn't steal that word-for-word from a legitimate conversation between Phil and I. That would be plagiarism, or some un-published equivalent to that. I changed the names. 

There is also the possibility that Joe got so plastered that Steve and Phil didn't want to deal with him in the morning, so they dumped his wasted arse into my loving and affectionate care. 

I dearly hope that the case isn't the latter. 

I check the time and discover that it's nearly noon, and for some reason that makes me realise how much I need to piss. I don't even understand how that relates. I walk to the opposite side of the room, passing by Joe's sleeping form on the way, and opening then closing the bathroom door as quietly as possible. Not because I don't want to wake him up and that would be rude, but because I have not yet planned what to do when he does. 

There's an odd serenity that accompanies a morning piss. I'll spare you the details. I decide to shower after that because, well, the best ideas surface whenever you're wet. I know what you're thinking. Stop laughing.

It was one of those brooding showers. The ones where you kind of just stand there with the water running all over you, including your face, and you don't really care. At the moment you're on the brink of discovering the meaning of life, but then the hot water runs out and you nearly slip and fall in the hurry to get out of the spray of suddenly freezing water. 

Unlike Phil, who has the habit of walking out of the bathroom in basically the nude and just changing wherever, I came prepared this particular morning. I re-enter the bedroom donning surprisingly clean jeans and t-shirt with the confidence that I don't appear homeless, even though I may be border-lining it. 

I wince in sync with the loud creak of the door, before I see that my intentions were useless. Joe is sitting upright in the bed with a sleepy, somewhat confused gaze. He sees me, looks around again, and then nods in a nonchalant manner, as if he were mentally saying, "I have no clue what's going on but I'm okay with it." 

Same here.

 

Joe has only been conscious in my flat for thirty minutes and I'm already impressed. For instance, there is apparently an underground radio station that actually plays music, not just the news. I was a teenager when I thought that the last station was taken off-air, but according to Joe it's the contrary.

"Not too long after the fundings were cut, a few of my mates who didn't drop out of university got into surveillance and broadcasting, takin' classes and whatnot just so they could eventually bring the music back," Joe had said, approximately ten minutes ago, while sipping tea. "Within a year they were somehow able to get their station on the airways. They haven't been caught, obviously... I honestly haven't clue how it works, but as far as I know it has inspired some others around the country to do the same."

A woman's voice comes on the radio.

 _"No ads, no propaganda, no bad vibes. Sheffield's only music station, where genres don't matter; just good tunes. Right now we're in our 1960's hour, and you just heard some Frankie Valli. Next up, here's "Paperback Writer" by The Beatles."_

The guitar intro fills the room, slightly distorted even more by the radio-static. We're both sitting cross-legged on one of the beds. I find it kind of interesting of how the beginning of our impromptu encounter involved us being nearly the room's width apart, yet now we are almost within an intimate distance. 

"Was she one of those university mates of yours?"

Joe hesitates. "She was several years ahead of me and wanted to become a performer, although a bit more... classical, I guess. She wanted to play professionally on euphonium. If I remember right, it was the summer before her second year when they dropped the program."

Tragedy is always relative. I was still in secondary school when the fine arts and liberal arts program funding was virtually dropped from every university. My response at the time had been essentially "my dreams are crushed and I didn't even get a chance", the bird that Joe talks about probably had the world in her hands but then had it abruptly taken and, if my math is right, Joe would have been a twelfth-year, the world in front of him and then poof, there went his chances of not growing up to work in the steel factory.

I think, for the first time in my life, I feel legitimate empathy. Not the, "I understand because that's the human thing to do" or the commonly misused feeling of _sympathy_ simply because they sound similar, but real, raw _understanding_. Which is odd, because despite coming to a subconscious brick wall when trying to understand this man in the mentally categorizing way I typically find myself doing with people, I can feel him emotionally. He is a walking contradiction with horrible hair that exerts a compendium of likely contradictory auras. Right now I may find him easy to understand, but I honestly cannot assume I will feel this way again.

Empathy is a nice feeling though, it makes me feel more down-to-earth. It's as if my true habitat is in the clouds, but Joe is hanging on to my hand or a piece of my hair or something to keep me grounded, and empathy is what gave him the momentary ability to fly up there to grab hold and yank me down in the first place. 

There is a nagging feeling accompanying this. I feel claustrophobic. I want to get out of here and go somewhere. Outside. Anywhere. 

But not alone, which was odd. 

I get urges like this often. It's the introvert in me, I know, but never do I want to be accompanied. It's like talking; if I do too much of it I feel uneasy and I have to make up for it by being silent for awhile. Although, this is different. It's the opposite, actually. I feel as if I haven't done enough, and I want to do more. For once, I actually want to understand someone and these little pieces I'm getting are taunting and exciting. He's enigmatic and I find it absolutely alluring.

"You want to go somewhere?"

Damn. He stole the words right out of my mouth. At least it's assurance that I would've gotten a "yes" if I had asked first. 

By the time that my mind wraps around what's happening or what I'm doing, I find the both of us walking down the sidewalks of the strip. It's a little past noon, which is typically the only time that the area is pleasant, or whatever word would describe a step down below it. 

I have a pet peeve. Actually, I have a lot of pet peeves, but this one is the most relevant. I can't stand small-talk. Unless it's something apropos to the situation, and must absolutely be uttered, then I don't mind. Talking mindlessly is a horrible waste of time and language, when there are more quiet and intimate ways of communication. I mention this because the entire time we are walking, I am expecting this to happen. When you don't know a person too well and you're stuck alone with them, and are doing something as simple as walking, the common human tendency would be to feel awkward and get the urge to break the uneasy by talking about a mindless topic. I consider it a cliche‚ and detached solution to silence, when it's not even much of a problem to begin with. 

Eventually, he says, "The last time I came here, I nearly got stabbed."

That is probably the best conversation starter I've ever heard in my life. 

"I actually came to see one of your shows, and I went out for a drag or something and some bird tried to mug me."

"I find it flattering that you took the chance to venture back here and see me again," I reply, placing my palm to my chest and giving him a pseudo-sincere look of indebtedness.

Joe sniggers and glides past an older lad with narrowed eyes, although I can't tell if it is because of the sunlight or rather directed towards us.

 

Like The Sparkle Lounge, the strip has a few hidden rooms. Shrouded by pubs and the typical greasy spoon is a quaint coffeehouse and hang-out called Paper Sun. I've never figured out the reason behind the name, but the shop has the same off-beat, incense-dampened air of the back room of the theatre. It is one of the most interesting places I've ever been.

I decided we should stop by since we had been walking around town and happened to pass by, and I have enough pride in where I live to try and show him that the strip isn't a complete hellhole. I also know the owner well enough to get discounts, especially if I bring a "date".

Oh bollocks, I forgot about that...

Madhavi, the owner of the shop, is a middle-aged Hindi woman whom I had the luck of being employed to before my place at The Sparkle Lounge became priority. In the short time I had spent working here, she had become something in between a mother, best friend, and confidant of mine. When Phil was out skirting through clubs and whatnot, I would stay after hours with her, listening to her heavily-accented stories and telling each other secrets and philosophies that I believe neither of us have ever planned on uttering aloud. 

As we enter the Paper Sun, she's at the counter, looking down at a book. The jingle of the opening door causes her to look up in the rehearsed look of joy when the rare customer comes in, although the expression quickly changes as her dark eyes land on me.

"Sav," she says, pronouncing it as "Sieve", as she quickly approaches me and gives me a reluctant side-hug, remembering just in time that I'm not the most touchy-feely person. "What brings you..." She trails off as she sees Joe, which she then answers her own question with an all-knowing smirk. 

My reply is a tilt of the head, dramatically raised eyebrows and a slow blink; this loosely translates to "really?". Madhavi cackles and returns to some place behind the counter, digging for tea leaves and what sounds like cups. 

After a moment, I can hear her shrill voice from the unknown call out, "If I have to remind you to make yourself at home, then there is problem."

I begin walking over towards a table, one near a window. Joe wanders behind me, looking around the room with a curious expression. Madhavi is visible again, setting cups on the counter and sorting though loose leaves, although her eyes follow the oblivious Joe. She is examining him. That was a trait that made Madhavi and I get along so well; her analytical attitude. She sits back and deduces before acting, like when you ask her a question and she does not immediately respond; she actually takes the time to think before answering. 

We're both sitting now. Joe looks genuinely surprised, and eventually says, "It's so... cultured in here." A pause. "Serene as well, I guess. Outside, everything is so loud and fast and no one really cares about the...er..."

"Musicality?"

Joe narrows his eyes and makes a pondering face, like he's tasting the word for the first time and is trying to decide whether he likes it or not. He makes a nod to himself and replies, "Exactly." He gives me a curious look, squinting his eyes ever-so-slightly with a inquiring smirk, although accompanied with that damn manipulative gleam. "What made you bring music into this?" 

He's dipping his hand into a pond much deeper than expected. 

"Well..." I begin, "I've never been into the classical side of music much, but I once heard this theory from a conductor that anyone could play a fast piece of music. Minor details aren't always necessary and if so, they're usually forgotten and an untrained ear won't even notice because of how seemingly exciting it is. Slow pieces are difficult because you can hear everything. All notes must be accentuated. If you sound clean and hit the notes, fine. But it's boring. You got to add musicality-do a vibrato or a trill, anything to make it sound beautiful." I didn't notice this until now, but while speaking I had gradually begun to look downwards, towards my hands. All I see are my thumbs twiddling in my lap. "It's like society, you know... All people care about is how it looks in a superficial way and they ignore details, those moments when you should be playing pianissimo rather than fortissimo." 

When I look back up, I see Joe smiling with a slight hint of pride, as if he calculated the answer to some important question and it was just revealed and he got it correct. "So that's why you like Queen."

"You have just discovered the meaning of life. Congratulations," I reply dryly.

Joe chuckles and when he sobers up, his eyes meet mine and I don't believe it's the lighting that's making them appear so dark. "Do I get a reward?"

My heart skips a beat. 

Keep your calm, lad. 

I shift forward, placing my elbows on the table and bending them so that I can rest my chin on my hands. 

"Depends on what you want," I reply in that sultry nonchalant way, but it's executed horribly and Joe starts laughing and I just realized how convenient it is that my hands are right here, next to my face. 

There's a few seconds where everything goes dark because I'm covering my face with my hands and laughing along with him until there's a pause, and Joe breathlessly saying, "That's really cute, sweet'art."

"What is?" I say with surprising composure. He just called me cute. Christ. Is that really the proper adjective? What am I, a schoolboy?

"That... That thing you do, hiding your face because you're blushing and making it even more obvious."

I lower my shield and give him a questioning look.

Joe tilts his head to the side and smiles slightly. "Although that is much better."

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Madhavi discreetly pointing at Joe and then giving me a thumbs-up.

 

**Some time later...**

There's a hand in my hair and a tongue in my mouth. Neither of which belong to me. 

The little radio is playing Pink Floyd's "Young Lust". Kind of appropriate, huh? 

I noticed awhile back that Joe had nice lips, the full kind that appear that if you were touch them, they would feel like satin. They feel better than they look, I'm telling you. My back touches a wall and I allow Joe to press me against it. My hands have been lingering on his back but now they're beginning to inch down, instinctively trying to find a window to skin through the t-shirt. A little shock shoots through my fingers and makes my heartbeat quicken as they find their destination and are gliding along and soft and smooth skin of Joe's lower back and waist.

I can feel his tongue retracting, leaving my mouth. I open my eyes in reply. He's breathing somewhat heavily, lips red and cheeks flushed. His eyes are incandescent. 

"Why'd you stop?" I asked breathlessly.

"Who said I was finished?"


	4. Movement III: Baroque

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If only there were seas flowing through quasars.

Movement III  
 _Baroque_

 

**Several weeks have passed...**

 

I still feel the same tang of nerves and pride at the same time that flutters in my chest with the gentle spontaneity of a sparrow's wings every time I awake to feel the warmth of another being. My eyes adjust to the light and the first thing that reaches my vision is either unauthentic golden waves that reflect a thousand halos or a face that I find attractive only in the fact that it is flawed. 

In this particular morning, I see his face. Like his piano playing, his sleep is not graceful. His features take as much analyzing as does his persona, and I've come to the conclusion that if I were to gather all of the time I find myself studying his unconscious face, it would be in the same vicinity as of the time it would take to count all of his eyelashes. 

 

* * * * *

 

When I awake, I am alone. I am in our flat and the only other living being I am aware of in here along with me is Phil. He is standing out on the balcony, looking down or someplace where the angle doesn't allow me to see his face. The radio is also out there with him, and from in here I can hear the faint sound of the typical morning news.

The contract Phil and I share with our flat ends in a month. He plans on moving in with Steve, which I'm not too surprised about, but he's been suggesting that Joe and I shack up. I find this idea similar to one of those ideas you have in grade school, when you and several friends say you're going to do something like starting a band and it sounds great until you realize that the chances of success are miniscule. Joe is an interesting and beautiful lad, but to have only been in a relationship for not even a month and then moving in sounds brash and subject to possibly destroying a friendship that I would like to preserve. 

As of right now, Phil and I are still living together, and I am perfectly comfortable with that. 

Phil realises that I'm awake and I can see him slightly turn in my direction, so that I can see the perfect, angular profile of his face. “G'morning, Sav.”

“Hey.”

I get up and meander out to the balcony, so that we're both standing with our arms bent on the railing. It's early-ish; late enough for the sun to be out but still too early to see many people on the street below, save for the homeless or hungover and lost party-goer who lay unconscious in the doorways of various businesses or in a shadow of a dumpster in the alleys.

“We're going to war.”

“What?”

Phil sighs. “It was on the radio earlier this morning. It's official. It'll be in the newspapers before you know it.”

“And the draft?”

“November lads, September birds.”

I breathe a sigh of relief and I instantly feel guilty for it. Somewhere, probably down this street will be some individual that those words apply to and this may be one of the worst mornings of their life. Or a better one, possibly. Nationalism is still in fashion, you know. 

Phil seems a bit surprised for whatever reason, possibly my slight nonchalance. “You know that means the Mutt is being deployed. I don't know if they've discussed who's next in line to get the Lounge, but I think this means we've both lost our jobs.” 

“Christ, Phil, it's nice to see where you're priorities are. The Mutt's a good lad and your first reaction is our paycheck. I'm afraid to see how you'd react if I had been included.”

“If you get drafted then I get drafted, Sav. I think you'd know that. Fuck.” Phil pinches the bridge of his nose. “...This isn't even the first wave. In several months they'll request more, I can already tell. If they call for December... Oh my god. I'm a musician—we're musicians, not soldiers. And Steve would react so badly and you know how he gets and-”

“Phil. Calm down.” I have a hand on each shoulder. “Look at me.” Phil's looking off to some piece of space behind me with a damp, dazed gaze. “Look at me, love.” He sighs shakily and his fair eyes meet mine and I make the most hopeful smile I could manage. “They haven't called any of us yet, and that's all that matters. December, August, and April. As long as you don't hear those months, we're all good. Okay?”

 

The rest of that day is occupied by a controlled fear or some brink of a panic attack. It's awkward and uneasy, like walking on a field that you know is laced with land mines so you're tip-toeing around, trying not to set anything off.

Thank god, for once, that there is a show tonight. It's Wednesday, so Phil's got the stage to himself this evening. For awhile I was thinking that it is horrible timing, but that routine prepping before shows is serving itself as a distraction. I'm not quite sure what's going on through Phil's head at the moment, but it must be something fairly shallow because he appears to be focusing on the mascara he's applying. 

I'm not a person to stress. Correction. I do get stressed, but when I do I become slightly uptight and don't show it. Phil, on the other hand is a bit more vocal. He sighs and groans and moans. I stay silent although may potentially explode, which may not be any better. In this situation though, which is the perfect predicament to cause stress, I feel indifferent. Maybe it's denial or it hasn't sunk in or something, but I'm really not sweating it. I've already calculated that we have high chances of being summoned, and I've sort of come to terms with myself. It's the lad near me that I'm worried about, to the point that it may evolve into stress or anxiety or something. And I know that he's stressed and scared, although it's not about his safety but the lad that he's leaving behind. 

People say that people are a very selfish species, but people don't know people like I do, apparently.

 

**The Sparkle Lounge, half of an hour before the performance**

 

Phil and I are sitting on that fancy couch in the sparkly back room when Joe, Steve, and some young lad I've never seen before enter the room. Steve sends me one of those greeting head-nods and then gestures Phil to join him as they walk to a less occupied corner of the room, where they begin to talk closely to each other. Joe looks slightly troubled, but as soon as we make eye contact he warms up and sits down in Phil's spot. The new lad finds a seat near us.

“This is Rick,” Joe says, gesturing towards him. He shoots me a smile and I realize that the kid must be around seventeen, although I've learnt to never guess ages, myself being a prime example. Although, he does look cherubic enough to be authentic. Round face and short, curly chocolate brown locks; he might as well be something out of one of Raphael's paintings. “I think Steve told Phil about him, and I understand that Phil tells you everything... He's, er, the 'drumming god' Phil probably told you about.”

“Ah, yes, I remember.” I glance towards Rick. “It's nice to see the prodigy in the flesh.”

Rick blushes slightly, causing Joe to laugh. 

Steve and Phil join the group, and I notice that Steve has his hands together with an expression that means all-business. This is very uncommon for him and at that moment I realise that everyone is either looking at Steve or I.

“Alright, Sav, you're the only one left that doesn't know,” Steve begins. 

I inwardly sigh with the accompanied thought of what now?

“We have decided that now would be an appropriate time to assemble that band you and Phil were discussing awhile back. As you can see, we have five bodies in the room; all of which are capable of being a vital part of said band. We just need to know if you're willing to be our bassist.”

“Sure,” I immediately apply in a tone that I can't help to be unsurprised, which takes everyone, except for Phil, slightly aback. “Just curious, though... Why now?”

Steve glances to Joe with a 'you explain' look, and Joe replies by turning to Rick with the same expression. Rick blanches slightly. 

Rick looks into his lap, and then back to me in a way that I would only call nervous out of the sake of being too lazy to find another word. He has an uneasy tilt to his head, like he's confused. “I was born in November,” he begins, which causes everyone to sort of become somber and look down or twiddle their thumbs, and I realise the perfect word of description for the lad: denial. “...and I've never gotten the chance to play in front of an audience before, and now I've only got two weeks left to do it.” He says it in fashion that is almost rehearsed, as if he really isn't sure of what's going on, save for what all the adults tell him. 

“He also finally got permission from his mum. I've been bugging him for months,” Steve adds, which has the intention to lighten up the whole damn situation slightly but leaves me feeling even more gloomy. The kid is so young that he had to ask him mum for permission, yet here he is leaving to war in a couple of weeks without no say at all. 

 

Phil leaves for the stage and shortly after, Steve and Rick go to sit in the audience. I'm getting up to join them when I feel Joe's hand touch my wrist. 

“Hold on a sec,” Joe says, and I oblige, sitting back down onto the couch. He has that perturbed look again, and I have the feeling that he's about to confide in something with me. I've got to respect the lad, being able to open up like that. I mean, he should, since we've been in this odd sort of mix of a long-distance relationship for awhile. 

“What's up?”

Joe bites his lip. “I lost my job yesterday.”

“Oh god, I'm sorry... It's because of the draft, isn't it?”

A sigh. “Sort of, yeah.” He's fidgeting, which I find exceptionally odd despite his occasional bursts of hyperactivity. Typically he takes on a cool demeanor when he sees fit to the situation, which now would've been a suitable time. 

Christ, everyone's been flaky today.

“There's something else?” I ask.

“The boss told me that he knows that the next draft will involve August lads... Getting rid and replacing in preparation, I suppose.”

“That's awfully ignorant of him. I doubt his source is reliable, considering the government doesn't go around releasing that stuff publicly. He's going to regret letting you lot go.” 

Joe shrugs. “Doesn't change the fact that I'm without a paycheck.”

“You know...” I begin, “We're losing the Mutt to this current draft. We're not sure who's going to take over or what, but I doubt he'll just let the Lounge fall apart. We're going to need more bodies here. And I mean here, not just randomly appearing to co-write songs and whatnot.” Joe doesn't particularly reply, but he does have the pondering look of consideration. “And, who knows, maybe this band we're whipping up might do us some good; financially, that is.”

Joe nods, finally satisfied I suppose, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and pulling me close. I hate it when he does that, how he sort of engulfs me with that warm presence of his. It's overwhelming and gets in my personal space but he gives me a smile that melts the restraint. “You're smart, you know.”

Screw modesty.

“Yeah, I know.”

 

I think at one point I made the effort to describe that backroom couch as having enough give to be multipurpose, and let me tell you, I was telling the complete, honest truth. Joe is on his back, his yellowy golden hair splayed out in metallic strands all around him, creating this intense contrast with the magenta fabric underneath it all. He almost reminds me of those Middle Ages illustrations of a saint or angel, how the halo or some other godly light is sort of drawn as a golden illumination behind their head. 

Sometimes Joe does this thing where he likes to lean back and give me control, which I find myself a bit hesitant to admit; that whole concept of someone being in complete control, that is. Anyway, he usually lays back and gives me this look, as if he's impatiently saying, “On with it” which completely contradicts that act of giving control, since he is initiating everything and technically still is in control. It's merely the planted idea that makes you believe you're in control. 

Bollocks, I think I broke something in my brain. I need to stop over-thinking. Or, maybe, Joe needs to stop being such a manipulative wanker.

He's doing it right now, though, with a slightly proud smirk on his face and I honestly didn't even have to wait for the look to feel that urge and I'm going to go ahead and dismiss that previous epiphany. I've been waiting for this a moment alone with him for awhile now, and I want him now. 

Within a smooth few seconds we're simply kissing, although my tongue is already eagerly trying to deepen it and I can feel Joe smile slightly before letting me in. I place my hands on each side of his face as his are moving to my waist, all the while I'm trying to shift into a comfortable position and eventually settle on sort of straddling my bent legs around him.

I break it off and for awhile we just look at each other's faces. His lips already have the slightly red tinge and his eyes are moving slowly, irises darkened to the shade of the shadowed depths in the Pensacola seawater. 

“You sure that Phil won't be pissed with you missing his performance?”

“Call it payback; I caught him and Steve making out during my performance once. I really doubt they were paying me any mind.”

“Fair enough,” Joe simply says. “Is the door locked?”

“Who cares? No one will come back here for the next half hour or so.”

Joe makes some odd sounding, suppressed laugh and it takes me a few seconds to realise the error of my choice of words. 

“Christ, Joe, I don't know if we should do this. I'm not too keen on shagging adolescent lads.”

That stops him right in his tracks, and he gives me a pseudo-wounded, although slightly dumfounded, expression. I don't really know how to respond to it, so I slightly narrow my eyes and smirk with the smugness that would have made Joe seem humble. I think I might have started a war, or some type of power-struggle, at least. 

Joe's first move in this mutually decided competition between us is to sit up and quickly plant a peck on my lips, which I find really surprising. What a kiss-ass. He then follows it up with some batting of the eyelashes type of sod that makes me inwardly laugh because, although he is attractive as hell, there are some things that he should refrain from doing. 

I hadn't noticed until now, but during all of this Joe's hands had moved from my waist to a comfortable position over his torso. His gaze travels to somewhere slightly beside me, and for a moment I feel the need to turn around and see if there's someone or something more important over there. A hand moves up and caresses a particular lock of my hair, then he lightly twirls and twists it through his fingers with an odd mixture of fascination and absentmindedness. He focuses, slightly narrowing his eyes and then softens, gaze meeting mine again. The passion is still there, but they have lightened to a typical hue, some ebullient nautical colour with a predominant amount of green. Almost cosmic, like the star-lit corners of space. 

If only there were seas flowing through quasars.

 

It must be nearly midnight as we walk out of the Lounge. The audience had left awhile ago, and Phil and Steve and Rick had beat us out there. Rick is wearing a hooded pullover, hands in his pockets and kicking stones while the November wind tugs at his curls. The two lovebirds are chirping away at each other, illuminated by the flickering marquee light. 

I give Rick a nod to join us, because I can understand his position all too well. 

“What time does your mum want you home?” Joe asks. 

“Er, well, she had the idea that this was going to end late... No exact curfew, I suppose,” Rick replies, shuffling around a bit. I'm not sure if it's just the cold, but Rick's face had become a few shades more pink since he walked over here. 

Joe gives him an empathetic smile, like he understands everything—which he probably does. Just leave the talking to him.

“Steve and I were thinking about practicing here on Friday, around noon. We already have a set here but you might want to bring some sticks,” Joe says, smoothly without any trace of the domineering trait I expected. “We have some original charts, although we haven't decided on any specific trap parts, so you'll just have to improvise. We'll also do a few covers, so bring any suggestions with you.” 

 

I'm laying in bed, half-awake, when I hear Phil ask, “Where were you and Joe earlier?” 

“I think you know,” I reply, without opening my eyes. I can here him wandering around the flat, probably searching for something edible. 

Phil sighs. “Well, you missed a grand show.” He begins to munch loudly on crisps or something.

“You did too.”

“Bloody hell,” Phil gasps, choking on whatever he's eating. 

He doesn't say another word for the rest of the night.


	5. Movement IV: Cambiata

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every sound I hear is a dissonant chord. Not even a tastefully done one either, mind you. The lack of harmony is enough to make even Charles Ives shift uncomfortably in his seat. It sounds as if the brass are playing augmented, the strings diminished, and then a car crashed into the bloody orchestra because the driver went blind due to the sound.

Movement IV  
 _Cambiata_

 

**Friday**

 

A hand gently pushing my shoulder eases me awake. 

Ease is far from an accurate proper verb, though.

Every sound I hear is a dissonant chord. Not even a tastefully done one either, mind you. The lack of harmony is enough to make even Charles Ives shift uncomfortably in his seat. It sounds as if the brass are playing augmented, the strings diminished, and then a car crashed into the bloody orchestra because the driver went blind due to the sound. 

Phil looks solicitous. 

“What?” I ask groggily.

His brows are furrowed. “Are you okay?”

“Of course.” I rub at my face and sit up. I can hear people outside on ground-level talking loudly, their voices floating up to our storey with the accord of a flute choir with no consistency of tuning or vertical alignment. The sunlight from the wide-open door to the balcony hits my eyes with the same flinching surprise as to the ears when a crash cymbal is dropped onto a cement floor. 

“It's about three ours 'til noon.”

“Lovely,” I say, having walked to the kitchenette during this conversation and currently rummaging through the cabinets, squinting and not even attempting to calm the matted mane of hair as I do so. I make a mental note of how brief Phil is speaking, almost border-lining brusque. Typically he flaunts a bit more wordiness, more expression. As of now, he is sitting on the edge of my bed, looking around with an indifferent gaze that notions that his mind is elsewhere.

I can't blame him, honestly.

“How long've you been up?”

Phil shrugs. “Er... Not much earlier than you. Why're you asking?”

I shake a box of cereal, only to find that it didn't reply. I gesture the box to him. “It appears we are out of vittles, my Phillip.”

“Oh dear,” Phil replies dryly. 

I toss the empty box into a conveniently nearby rubbish bin. “I'm going to go into town, maybe stop by the Paper Sun on the way...”

Phil lifts his gaze up to mine with a potential smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“Give me a minute to get ready.”

 

I judge the severity of Phil's out-of-sorts mood by the fact that I'm the one initiating conversation. It's a tedious and awkward task, but I do it out of the occasional selflessness of my heart. 

Blimey, how I've softened.

There are the sounds of people quietly chattering and glasses chiming, those sounds of civilization, as we enter the Paper Sun. The Morning Rush, or as Madhavi and I also like to call it... The Only Rush. That is, if you consider an average of fifteen to twenty people over the course of three hours a rush at all. Although, the Paper Sun is accompanied by an authenticity, something that is uncommon and sometimes craved by particular people nowadays, and Madhavi takes this as the perfect excuse to have somewhat ridiculous prices on the beverages and baklava and what have you. 

This is the tea business after all, and what people pay for is not the drink, but the atmosphere.

Phil and I find an empty table, the one closest to the back. Customers have a tendency to sit near the windows, where the dark red, semi-transparent curtains cast a tinted light. I can understand how it's picturesque in theory, but it's not as if there's much of a nice view to look out on.

Within ten minutes Madhavi leaves us each a cup of breakfast tea, a bowl of almonds, and basbousa. She does this almost automatically, sparing us any of the rehearsed customer service. It is at that time that I notice that there is another employee, someone I have never seen before. 

“She finally hired a replacement,” I say to Phil, discreetly. 

“That brunette bird?” he asks, tilting his head in the direction. I nod in reply. This replacement of mine is a woman, not too much older than myself I suppose. She is slightly taller than average height, caramel-toned skin and broad-shouldered with bony arms and legs. She is like an ill-proportioned bird, the way she moves. 

As business dies down she walks into the back and Madhavi takes a seat at our table.

“That is Simona,” she says before either of us can ask. 

“Never seen her before. New in town, I suppose?” I ask.

Madhavi narrows her eyes, glancing in the direction she was last at. “Think so. Her accent sounds a bit more... Scouse.”

Phil and I nod in acknowledgment, watching as the mysterious Simona appears from out of the back again to clean tables. 

“You two doing alright?” she asks after a moment. Her eyes had moved to Phil as she said this, noticing how untypically reserved he has been acting, no doubt. Phil nods his head in reply and adds a smirk that would have been reassuring to anyone but Madhavi. From experience, I have seen that most people with analytical prowess would typically respond with some sort of discreet body language in reply to when they catch something that most people do not. I do this frequently. Madhavi does not. She is stoic and unresponsive in situations where she is trying to figure something out. So when Phil pulls this “I'm okay” façade, Madhavi's reply is an emotionless expression with no form of body language allowing anyone to perceive whether she comprehends or not. If she wants someone to know she gets it, she'll let them know in a way they can plainly understand.

“The draft,” she says phlegmatically. It's not even a question; she knows. 

Phil looks uneasy, the slight darkening of his eyes being the confirming response to Madhavi's assumption. 

“Worrying over the... inevitable, it's no good. Who will and won't be chosen next all relies in a hand that isn't yours,” she says, calmly. 

“I know, just...” Phil messages an index finger against his temple. “I remember reading about World War I and II in the textbooks and always thinking, 'Thank god I wasn't in that generation'. It's surreal.”

Madhavi smirks, almost cryptically. “For the first time in my life, I am glad I am an old woman.”

Phil and I both lift our gazes to hers.

“If I die in the crossfire, so what? I have tasted from every country I could have dreamed of, and although I am still not content, I consider what I've done so far as near-complete. It is you all that I fear for. You all are mere infants being pulled prematurely from the womb. You haven't even glimpsed at what could be seen.”

 

T.S. Eliot wrote that when living in a wasteland, the supposed way of escape is through sexual or romantic relationships. Key word: supposed. The poem of his that I paraphrase basically says, “You instinctually think and want pleasure to be the solution, but it isn't. It's not that easy.” It's a natural tendency that, for awhile, exerts the feeling that you've escaped when in reality you're making no progress. 

I think that living in a wasteland is a horribly melodramatic metaphor for being depressed or just aware of life and whatnot, but I still agree with the meaning. I don't use relationships and sex as an escape, for that assumes something permanent. I use it as a temporary distraction. 

It's probably just as worse, if not more, in actuality. 

Joe is my distraction, a mirage of an oasis when I'm stranded in a desert. Watching him move and listening to that molten gold voice of his, the way he says my name like the growl of a tenor saxophone when I kiss his neck... He, although I hate to admit, is my Fata Morgana.

And we all thought he was the manipulative one.

 

“Name a key,” Steve says, a Gibson acoustic in his lap. 

“E Major,” I reply.

For a need in a change in scenery I suppose, the lads decided that we should practice on the stage instead of in the back room. I was rather indifferent to the subject; although the back room may be nice for sentimentality, the auditorium has better acoustics. 

Steve doesn't even acknowledge my response, or at least aloud, that is; he fingers through the scale once and is already jumping into melodies and whatnot, wincing and shaking his head at awkward note intervals until he settles on something tolerable to build upon. Phil thinks for a moment, nods to himself, and begins experimenting. All the while Rick is obliviously drumming against his thighs instead of the drum-heads out of patience and just being a decent human being. 

It's been at least fifteen minutes after noon and Joe is still not present. I feel somewhat guilty for not immediately asking Steve when he showed up for practice, but I thought that if the reason were that important he would upright tell me. 

That doesn't completely spare me from feeling concern, though.

“Where's Joe?” I ask.

“That glittery back room, on the couch probably. We got here half of an hour before you two and right before noon he said he wasn't feeling in good sorts. Said he was going to nap for awhile before joining us,” Steve explains fluidly in his typically soft voice, only looking up from his guitar to make occasional eye-contact. 

Phil's mood has improved exceptionally since we arrived, no doubt from being around guitars and Steve. He gives him a weary look. “How did it occur to you that it is okay to not inform Sav of that?” 

Steve ceases playing, looking genuinely insulted. “I didn't think that Joe wanted to be disturbed,” he says, defensively. 

“Don't worry about it. I wouldn't have wanted to intrude on him earlier,” I say, standing up and propping my bass up against a chair. “It's been awhile now, though, so I think I should at least check on him.”

 

The first time I ever took acid was in the Sparkle Lounge's back room. I was nineteen years old. I don't remember much from the trip, obviously, but for whatever reason I had felt the need to document what I was seeing as I saw it. I had found a discarded pen and drew all over my arm. The doodles involved two rooms, one at my wrist and the other at my elbow, separated by a starlit hallway that was speckled with insignificant doors that lead to insignificant rooms. And cows. There were also cows in the hallway. 

I still have no idea what it means. After all, I was probably higher than Keith Richards on an airplane. 

I'm not quite sure why I remember this right now. I am walking through a hallway to another room, passing by doors with purposes I cannot quite figure out, but instead of stars lighting the way it is florescent light bulbs. 

I can hear the lads doing a cover of The Velvet Underground's “Pale Blue Eyes” through the walls. That must have been Rick's suggestion, because I've never known Phil and Steve to be extremely fond of Lou Reed. 

 

I enter that lustrous back-room to find Joe, as expected, sleeping on that magenta couch. He has his face buried into the crook of an arm, turned away from my direction so that I can see his messy ponytail in its entirety. I run my fingers through the wavy locks until he stirs, shifting about so he could see me. He lacks in that barely-awoken dazed look, which leads me to believe that he wasn't even sleeping. He looks fatigued mentally, if anything, rather than physically. I can imagine him laying there with his eyes closed, just trying to figure out what is going on and how he's going to organize and fix it to his liking. 

“I had a really bad migraine,” he says. 

“Okay.”

“You ever stress out so much that you make yourself ill?”

I can't say I have, but for the sake of his comfort I reply, “Sure.”

He looks somewhat vexed in response to my reply, but he brushes it off and makes room on the couch so I can sit next to him. 

“What's stressing you out?”

“I think you could imagine.” It sounds inauthentic, and I can tell that he notices how I feel because he bites his lip and adds, “I can't tell you.”

That reply feels like a punch to the gut. “Does it concern me?”

He looks genuinely conflicted. After a moment, he says, “Potentially.”

My eyes meet his and I don't say anything. He looks uncomfortable and that's when I notice that the barrier I built is weakening and that intensity is bleeding out. For once, it is my gaze that is making him uneasy and I almost feel proud; powerful. 

“Don't.”

“Yes. If it concerns me, even if only potentially, I need to know,” I say it slowly.

Joe's expression is of someone who's will has been broken for the first time, and doesn't particularly know how to react to it. “It concerns Phil and Steve more than anything. Steve has told me something that Phil is unawares of and wants to keep it that way. It's nothing happening right now and it's all potential—for everyone.”

Now it's my turn to not know how to react. It's a vague as hell yet that last sentence felt horribly cryptic. 

“Am I only concerned out of association?” 

“Sort of.”

“And that means?”

Joe doesn't say anything for awhile. His foggy cerulean gaze moves off to that ever-blooming sunflower in the corner of the room and he sighs shakily. “How selfless is self-sacrifice?” he asks with an air of cynicism. 

I would have exasperatedly said something about him changing the subject but that question knocked me down. Yet, even though I don't know the context, I feel that the inquiry has an all-to-much relevance to this situation. 

“Think about it,” he says. “Everyone who partakes in it is assumed as a hero post-death, so if you know that the outcome is your name in memory being held a few notches above everyone else, then who are you really doing it for?” 

I don't respond. He continues, “And would that mean that the person who rejects the option is a coward, even if they know this? If someone feels that, when it comes down to it, the only reason why they are sacrificing themselves is for their image in the rescued person's mind, rather than the act of keeping said person alive.” 

“I think the coward would be the person who expects another to die for them,” I reply. I hear Joe exhale and I realize that he had been holding his breath the entire time I spoke. 

I feel a nagging sensation that I have just signed my own death warrant.


	6. Movement V: Dithyramb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whatever presumptions I have willfully believed of the supernatural has been completely altered. In other words, I think I just received a bad omen.

Movement V  
 _Dithyramb_

 

Whatever presumptions I have willfully believed of the supernatural has been completely altered. In other words, I think I just received a bad omen.

I just awoke from a dream that could be called a nightmare, although I'm not quite sure if that's the proper term to describe it. This was not the typical “nightmare” in which you feel as if you are falling and wake up at impact, or the kind that wretches you into screaming out. No, this was different. This was the kind that you don't jolt awake from; it lasts for hours until your body eases itself awake by taking its sweet time while on the inside you might as well be on fire. And when you awake you are covered in sweat with the taste of copper in your mouth, and you realize that you had been involuntarily biting down on your tongue or cheek in a fervent attempt to wake yourself up. 

It was not a nightmare, it was torture. 

 

It went like this:

 

It's about midnight, give or take. I'm a bit too preoccupied to really check the time though. Joe is laying by my side, planting slow and spaced-apart kisses on my collar bone. He has his hair pulled back into a ponytail again, although done with more precision this time save for the glinting strands that hang downward and lightly touch the skin of my chest periodically. I can't see his face, but I can imagine that iridescent hue to his irises, his pupils dilated. His lips feel hot against me and I can assume that his face has already obtained that ruddy colour. 

And then, as quick and nonlinear as dreams are, we are open-mouthed kissing and it's at that point that I subconsciously realize just how unreal they could be. The mind is a sponge, absorbing even the most obscure data; the slight twinge of the senses from the most random and distant and unimportant experience. This data is often used illogically, like now. We're kissing and instead of the taste of Joe's mouth that is so typical, that sweetness, I taste something strong like wine or raw cinnamon.

At that moment, the lab rat becomes conscious that it's in a cage.

I have concluded that dreams don't become truly surreal until the mind becomes aware of it's artificial environment. The subconscious realizes that it is a temporary god.

That taste becomes as subdued and distant as the memory which inspired it. 

I am standing outside. 

There is a black car crawling down the road, almost in slow-motion. The sky is monochrome and the ground is sepia, and when the car stops and the door opens I see faded colours glowing from inside. Rick appears from somewhere out of my sight and climbs into the car, and from where I stand I see that the car is packed with toddlers and babies and teenagers, all staring blankly and confused. 

I'm not quite sure why, but we all sing “Happy Birthday” as the car's door closes and it continues on it's slithering path. 

We.

I feel someone behind me and I turn around with the assumption that it is Joe. Instead, I find myself looking at a wiry man that stands my height, face framed with dark blond locks and clear fair eyes.

I am looking at myself. 

“Hello,” I say with a toothy and bright smile that I would have never even imagined seeing myself doing.

“Hello,” I reply.

“How're you?” I ask, sweetly.

“Are you supposed to be me? Because you're not doing a swell job at it.”

“Okay,” I say without a single falter in tone or expression. 

I hear an odd whirring sound coming from somewhere below. I look down to find a single drop of blue against the pale reddish-brown cement. I taste dirt in my mouth and feel something pounding in the back of my head, and as I raise my head back to its normal angle I see a ceiling instead of myself looking back.

It is the ceiling of our flat. I can see Joe walking around, my view of him distorted by a steeply inverted angle. I am laying on the ground. He looks down toward me, a forlorn look on his face. 

And then he is gone.

And I am laying on the floor, spitting out dirt streaked with a moist blue that has the congealment tendencies of another substance we are all too familiar with.

 

Am I going mad, or does my mind just have a mind of its own?

 

I haven't been able to go back to sleep since I awoke. It's well past three in the morning, and my fringe is still plastered to my face with sweat that has yet to dry and my eyes burn with every blink. On the other bed, Phil is silently in his own state of tranquil, immune to my pain as I am to his. 

I have always considered myself independent. I believe that everyone has an existential crisis or something of the like at some point in their life, but I usually just stay quiet and trudge through it alone. It's pleasant that way, for me, fighting my own demons. Right now though, I really want it to not be so. 

“Phil,” I say. 

“Huh?” he replies, almost immediately with the ease that he's been awake all along. 

“You can be pissed at me for waking you but...” I stumble over my own words before I can even say them. This is ridiculous. I'm a mature adult looking for console out of another over a dream. 

“You 'aving them too?” he asks. He's facing me, his elbow bent with a hand propping up his head, fingers laced through his hair. His pose reminds me of a stereotypical pre-teen girl from one of those movies, where there's a group of them staying up late and gossiping and whatnot. 

“Yeah.”

He smiles sadly; it's a closed-lipped smirk that's meant to look empathetic but instead showcases how gloomy he probably feels. 

“We were drafted in mine. When we went to battle, we used guitars as weapons... Generic sunburst an' white Strats instead of sub-machine guns or whatever, y'know,” Phil says, completely awake and alert by now. 

“Sounds horrifying,” I reply.

Phil raises his eyebrows. “It was. I think the sign that the world is going to hell in a hand-basket would be when we have to use music as a tool of death.” 

We put aside a moment to dwell over the meaning of that statement, almost somberly. 

“What happened in yours?” he asks, but then immediately adds, “You don't have to if it was that bad or anything, but I'm cool with it. You've 'ad to put up with my venting for years, I won't mind being on the other side for once.”

“It's okay,” I reply. “It was just really surreal. Not on Dali's level, but still so much that I felt like it had some metaphorical meaning or something.”

Phil nods understandably, but he looks slightly concerned, how his brows are slightly furrowed. “Have you been feeling alright, lately? You've been more detached than usual and I don't know... I completely understand that there's a lot of good reasons to feel down, but I still worry about you, mate.”

“I think the same way about you, too, if that makes anything better.”

Phil doesn't look slightly less concerned. “I make it obvious, though. I can't help that, it's just how I am. You, though... I may think I have you figured out but then you surprise me again.”

“You and me both. Sometimes I can barely recognize myself.”

 

We, as a quintet, have chemistry. 

The last thing the Mutt ever did as the main decision-maker of the Lounge was to schedule our ensemble on Saturday nights. This was a good example of an individual taking a chance because they literally have nothing to lose. Saturday night is the most popular night, typically selling out the most. Although, the bird who usually owned the stage that night happened to have a birthday in September. Her name was Lita. 

I use past-tense when referring to the drafted because I'm a realist, honestly. We as a predominantly poor social class may not know what politician said what, but we do know the sod that those other countries have been cooking. 

Yesterday was our first live performance. Many of our audience had shown up for the Saturday night tradition to see Lita, but the drafting process is odd and fluctuating per individual, and she didn't get the chance to do a farewell performance. They called her in to get her passports finalized and to begin her excessively brief basic training as soon as the chosen had been announced. 

Rick will be summoned to go through this process next Thursday. 

Despite the above, our performance was well-received. We did a few covers, Bowie and Mott the Hoople and Iggy Pop, and a rusty original that we had written awhile back but had never even imagined playing due to not having a full band. Now we do, for awhile at least. It's title is “Overture”.

The galloping bass-line thundered within my soul. It was something of an epic with Zeppelin-esque lyrics and, damn, it just felt right. 

The Mutt made a new schedule in response to his loss and our success; it's newly printed, blindingly white sheet is taped over the stained and outdated one on my mirror, stating that, although we may be looking for replacements within several weeks, we as a group currently own Saturday night.

There is something off-setting about its newness; I feel as if I have outlived a generation, yet here I still am. 

I consider it both a token of stamina and stagnancy.

 

*****

 

“'tis a shame,” Joe says, blowing out ephemeral tendrils of smoke while standing under what would have been a marquee light if there had been any electricity in the building. Ye olde cinema. As of last month, that is. The “out of business” note on the door is still crisp and unweathered. 

“Maybe the folk over here'll turn it into their own Sparkle Lounge,” I say. 

Joe grunts, almost dismissively. He must be a bit more concerned about the state of the current film industry than I do, I suppose. It's nothing surprising, really. Nothing is, now that I think of it. This isn't the first cinema to go out of business lately and it definitely wont be the last. 

We begin walking around a bit more, passing by fellow young people who are out for reasons unknown, although I assume for the same as Joe and I. Bored and restless and wanting to do something that doesn't involve spending the night in a pub. 

Although, Joe was a bit too content with doing just that.

“You and I are spending the evening together, not you and a pint,” I had said in response to his suggestion. 

“I'll think of that next time you want to drink tea and smoke hookah,” he replied. 

I could care less when he said that, and right now I still can. There's something pleasant about walking around together in the less-shady side of Sheffield, looking like two typical urbanites. No one knows or really cares that we spent a good deal of the day walking in a cold that borderlines harsh just to reach the part of town that doesn't have a burlesque and suspicious-looking inn on every block.

Despite the lack of things to do, there is still plenty more than what is back on the strip. Something about being in a metropolitan setting gives us both more deviance, like holding hands when there's more people nearby. We're not even that touchy, but something must be in the air that makes us want to either show off to or spite everyone. 

There it is: the tower block where Joe and Steve's flat is located. A narrow, faded building; although obviously more expensive and well-kept than Phil and I's. Keep in mind that there are empty glass bottles scattered on the overhanging balcony of the second storey. 

Since Joe and I had started seeing each other, more or the less acknowledging each others' existences, I had never visited the flat. Never once had Phil and I ventured uptown together to visit Steve. I'm quite sure that the option was never offered either. I still haven't decided whether the reason was out of inconvenience or potential awkwardness, and whether it was mine or theirs or a bit of both. It's okay to be the third wheel in a local, comfortable area... But to be a several hour's walking distance away, with no one to socialize with besides the lovebirds? Hell no. 

I'm almost positive that the fact that made this visit possible is that Steve is with Phil at our flat right now.

They say that learning your significant other's lifestyle choices is what truly decides the success/failure of a relationship. What I've learnt from the immediate glimpse into Joe and Steve's flat is that they are both organised and messy. At the same time. They are prioritized cleaners. In their cases, musical instruments are first in line. The kitchen table is probably dead last, judging by how I can't even see the wood of the surface as there are dishes and notebook paper and pay-stubs scattered all over it, all speckled with coffee and tea rings. 

“That's all Steve,” Joe says, giving the mess a disgusted look. I pick up an extremely out-dated pay-stub that has Joe's full name on it.

“Of course,” I say, waving it. 

Joe grins and he disappears into another room, which I assume is his bedroom. I find it somewhat foreign and luxurious, having a room to yourself. I have lived in a two-bed, one bedroom situation ever since I moved in with Phil and, well, you learn to not take those things for granted. 

I follow suit to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, kicking off his trainers. There's a magazine pull out poster of David Bowie on a wall, a Union Jack on the other, a Dalek figure on the nightstand on top of a stack of records. There's an antique record player on the floor and an FM radio on the windowsill. From here I can see that Mott the Hoople's “All The Young Dudes” vinyl is resting in the record player. 

“What're you grinning about.” 

“I feel like I'm in the bedroom of a second-year.”

Joe narrows his eyes. “If you make one more joke about shagging an adolescent, I swear...”

“So now we're talking shagging, eh?”

Joe rolls his eyes and let's himself fall back onto his bed, almost melodramatically. “What am I to do with you, Sav?” he asks, chuckling.

I can think of several answers that would benefit us both.

 

I will never be able to think of showers the same way again. 

I usually used them as a means of pondering, thinking, and scheming; things that are typically mellow, but as of a half-hour ago I will be forever reminded of its alternative functions. This involved making out with Joe while the water cascaded on my back, and in the midst of the heat of the moment, pulling a typical yours truly and slipping. It didn't just kill the mood, it butchered it.

In conclusion, the bruise on my hip will constantly remind me for probably the next week or so. Afterwards it will be an occasional and hopefully gentler reminder to invest in adding one of those non-slip mats to the floor of the shower. 

Because of this poorly executed means of having, er, a multipurpose good time, Joe has absolutely refused to do anything else of the sorts for the rest of the night. Or, at least that's what he said. I'm assuming several other reasons, such as him being too exhausted but not wanting to say so, or he's just really turned off. I really can't blame him if the latter is true, because I'm honestly too embarrassed to do much as well, anyway. 

Besides, it's a really ugly bruise. And on my hip too, of all places. Joe probably considered the same thing, since I can see him being the reluctant “I don't want to hurt you” type of lad when the time needs it. If that's the case, then neither of us are getting a lay for a week. Damn showers. 

Now it is rather late, and I'm well awake and I know Joe is as well. Over the course of this awkward rendezvous we had changed sleeping, or attempting to sleep, positions so that now I'm laying diagonally across the bed with my head resting on the crook of Joe's neck. His position isn't nearly as traditional either, mind you. 

“Just... I dunno, exert your energies everywhere elsewhere,” I eventually say. 

“But I like to grab your hips.”

“What's there to even grab? If you like them so much, hold your own.”

“It's not the same,” he sighs despondently, as if he's tried and knows all too well himself. I can't say much to that; if I had hips like Joe I probably wouldn't even bother with a scrawny lad like myself. “I'm sorry for.... uh, you know.”

“Don't pull that. I slip all the time. I think you would've already gotten the gist that I'm not the most graceful person.”

“No. I mean. I wasn't talking about that. Although I am still sorry about the shower thing, despite who's fault it was. It looked like the bloody hurt.” He pauses. “I was talking about the whole refraining from giving information fiasco we had a few days ago.”

“Oh. That.”

“I think I was a bit cryptic, now that I think of it.”

“No really?” I say, sitting up. “So what, are you going to tell me now?”

“No, I was just apologizing for--”

“Apology not accepted; you're an arse.”

“You seriously can't blame me for the confidentiality of my best mate,” Joe replies, exasperated. He's sitting up now as well, already trying to use that seemingly intimidating gaze. It isn't working, not the least. I think he notices that his charm isn't making an effect, because he sighs and continues, “I feel like out of all people, you would understand.”

“You assume that because I think differently, not because you actually comprehend how I think.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You think that my thought process is a bit...abnormal. You're correct. You use that fact to back up that I think oppositely to the crowd. In most cases, yes. But that is a faulty assumption on your case, because if anything, the whole concept of secrets from particular relationships is sod. I don't care who it's from or who it's to, I want to know and as the whole purpose of a secret is to hide, I will do so with what I acquired. It could be from Phil or my mother, I could care less” 

Joe has that slightly shocked, slightly proud look on his face that he acquires when he hears me rant or speak for more than a few sentences. It's a complimentary look, for me, but due to the situation I'm not falling for it. He brought it up, therefore somewhere inside of him he must have regretted not telling me the last time we spoke of it. I don't believe that he was apologizing to me about how he acted, he was apologizing to Steve for what he may potentially spill.

“Steve made a... trade with someone,” Joe begins, painfully. I'm absolutely torturing that loyal streak in him, I know. “Sort of an insurance for Phil's life, when the... draft happens.”

He looks to me as if I'm going to make a comment. I give him a blank look and he continues, “Apparently the military uses statistics of the percentage of population born in each month, and what type of people. They aren't going to draft all of the ten vascular surgeons that are in Britain; they're trying to work around completely wiping out the scarce and needed people. Using that, Steve and I dug up that the least likely to be conscripted month is April, and the most likely is December.”

“Where did you find this information,” I ask.

“Steve... knows people. I'm not quite sure how, but the people who are higher in the business food chain know these things beforehand so that they know who to not hire.”

“Was the boss who fired you one of these?”

“No. He was just a prick.”

“Oh,” I say, “Anyway, continue.”

“Apparently there was this act that was enforced when women began to be included in the drafting. The military is obviously not going to send pregnant women into war, but they didn't want all of the ladies to get knocked up so they can't fight. Basically this is an eye for an eye deal, saying that if someone can't go, they pick up the next in line. A spouse, sibling, parent, offspring; anyone who is of the age, can fight, and hasn't been called in yet.”

“Let me guess,” I begin, “Steve is using this same law to sort of volunteer himself in place of Phil.”

“You got it,” Joe replies. 

“When does Steve leave?”

“Not sure. Like I said, he knows people, and he's already got the paperwork sorted and whatnot. I don't know if he'll go when they call for December, or if they want him now.” 

That whole self-sacrifice ramble Joe went on last time we discussed this makes a lot more sense now.

“You seem... calm,” Joe observes. He looks drained and exhausted and wont even attempt to make eye-contact with me. 

“There's not much I can do,” I reply. “At least I know I'm going to have to learn how to fire a gun now, eh?” 

“I'm sorry,” he says.

“For what, letting me know? Or for not doing the same for me? If I found out you had been doing for me what Steve is doing to Phil, I would've left you. I'm not sorry for the harshness, because I really would. Phil would be a coward for accepting that sacrifice, and, I love Steve no matter what, but he's acting a coward by doing this so he wouldn't have to live without Phil.”

“He's doing this because he knows Phil wont fare well out there,” Joe corrects.

“Bollocks. Phil has no disadvantage. He's smarter and quicker than you lot think. When it all comes down to it, we're all destined for the same damn thing and I think you know well of it.”


	7. Movement VI: Intermezzo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I want to leave. Maybe take Phil with me as well. We can leave all of our belongings, save for some guitars, and leave this damn country. Move to the States and play on the streets of Austin, Texas or New York among the glorified, bohemian homeless of America. Maybe then we'll make some money.

Movement VI  
 _Intermezzo_  
  
  
The orchestra beneath the stage is a frenzy of wailing bassoons and oboes, shrieking trumpets, and bellowing tubas. All stylishly executed, of course. Although, heard in the midst of this chaos is the toccata of the harp and strings basses; a whimsical cadenza hidden by pandemonium.  
  
There is a single seat in the entire audience that is occupied. There is a perturbed air to this visitor, as if Lucifer himself has come to watch.  
  
The boy onstage does not falter, but his eyes widen slightly in the realisation of his spectator.  
  
But this is just an overestimation. The sole member of the audience is merely the dark figure from before; a green-eyed shadow, something seemingly daunting although, when understood and conquered, harmless.   
  
  
_The Martyr_  
  
  
When the first streams of sunlight seep through the window-blinds, I am already wide awake; laying in Joe's bed and studying the slowly contrasting and stretching shadows on the walls.   
  
How long have I been awake? I honestly don't know. I probably only got about two hours of consistent sleep, the rest just a dazed, poor excuse of consciousness. Although, I know Joe slept just fine, and is still doing that. It wasn't until about three hours past midnight did we finally get into a comfortable position—comfortable for Joe, that is.   
  
When he's awake, his demeanor may be controlling, but catch him subdued by either fatigue or booze and he will mold into whatever comfortable space he can fit into, that being with his back to me and my arm slung over his waist. I've had his hair in my face all night, which I have factored in as a possible reason for my acute insomnia.  
  
I brush my lips against the back of his neck and immediately receive his response of a shifting shoulder, its blade moving against my chest as I pull slightly closer to him.   
  
Here's a shocker: I've had lovers before Joe. Hold back that collective gasp, please.   
  
Anyways, I have consistently been annoyed by greeting words during morning intimacy. I believe that there is nothing more picturesque in my mind than silence.   
  
Save the greetings and guttural speech of the spoken language for after morning tea.   
  
What I'm trying to get at is that out of all of my past rendezvous, Joe has been the first to naturally do this. Despite the occurrences of us waking up in each-others' midst being few, they have been wordless. I have never told him my preferences, nor anyone for that matter, for the exact reason that their instinctual tendencies is what I'm trying to detect, not them simply obliging to what I want them to do.   
  
Joe mumbles something that faintly sounds like, "'Morning, love" and I can see that perfectly crafted picture fall apart. A snag on a freshly finished, masterpiece of a tapestry.  
  
  
******  
  
  
This is the first time I have ever seen Rick's mother, but still do I conclude that this is the most angry she has ever been in her life. It's obvious that such strong emotions aren't an often obstacle. Her eyes, which are the same warm brown as her son's, are steely and her lips are tightly drawn, giving me the opportunity to confirm that she is attempting to concentrate her compendium of rage and worry into something compact and unnoticeable. In particular, to her son. The Achilles’s Heel of every parent is the strong-willed instinct to not allow their weaknesses to become visible to their offspring.   
  
Although, if I had been in her situation, I would have let every demeanor I both naturally possess and have striven for go. I would unleash on everyone involved absolute hell.   
  
The vehicle that comes to pick up Rick is not the sleek black car of my nightmare, but a military bus with a hide of white, weather-stained metal. It rolls to a halt in front of Rick's house with an agonizing creak of the breaks. The passengers are not children, but rather a variety of everything between teenagers and the middle-aged. The stretched cab is at maybe two-thirds capacity and the passengers aren't staring out blankly and confused, but merely looking out the window or down to their laps or two each other.   
  
Dreams are like the old Hollywood films: their value and long-lasting relevance based on their cinematography; how picturesque it is rather than realistic.   
  
A woman in olive drabs stands at the entrance of the bus with a clipboard in her hand. Rick approaches her and they exchange a few quick words and nods. She steps back into the cab, leaving Rick to walk back across the grass of his front yard to us. His mother hands him a nylon drawstring bag with a printed-on advertisement for a local supermarket. I'm not quite sure what the contents are, but one of the requirements for the draftees was to pack at a minimum as most necessities are provided. I can assume a sorry arrangement of underwear, socks, and a family heirloom. Sentimental, useless, sod.  
  
"Make sure to write us," Joe says with an actor's smile.  
  
Rick doesn't even bother with a facade. He nods briskly and I blink and suddenly see a new person. Crew-cut replacing those curls and a lean, mature face. A Union Jack is bristling in the distance. “God Save The Queen” blares from an old recording of an orchestra during some previous, more important war when everyone actually cared.   
  
Nationalism is not _in_ fashion, it _is_ fashion.  
  
  
"At least he got what he wanted, before, you know..." Phil trails off, his gaze drifting downward and resting on the untouched pint on the table in front of him.  
  
"The kid wanted a slice of fame and we gave him a crumb," Joe says bitterly.   
  
"At the most," Steve adds.  
  
A melancholy silence envelopes the atmosphere. I feel uncomfortable, as usual, going to pubs with the group because it usually goes in this direction. Although, this time there is actual cause rather than cynical speculation. Still, I feel slightly irritated by this despondent attitude. There is nothing we can do. Rick is gone with a small possibility of returning and Steve and I are headed in the same direction. I glace to Phil. He looks absolutely drained.   
  
Just wait, mate, it's going to get far worse.  
  
I make eye-contact with Joe. He slightly narrows his eyes, unnoticeable to anyone but myself; the mutually silent conversation between confidants. His expression is dark and intense, yet discreet. He might as well say, "Hold your tongue if you want to keep it."  
  
Ever since Phil had made his distraught visible, all the colour drained from Steve's face. He looks guilty. I don't blame him.   
  
I want to leave. Maybe take Phil with me as well. We can leave all of our belongings, save for some guitars, and leave this damn country. Move to the States and play on the streets of Austin, Texas or New York among the glorified, bohemian homeless of America. Maybe then we'll make some money.   
  
But, for now, all I can do is leave this pub.   
  
  
  
**Approximately 12:45AM**  
  
I'm laying in bed, reading a worn copy of Agatha Christie's "Evil Under the Sun" when I hear a knock at the door. I immediately know that Phil isn't on the other side; he always has a set of keys and at this hour he is kind enough to assume that I'm asleep and to let himself in quietly.  
  
Visitors are such a hassle. I consider the thought of not even getting up.  
  
Out of concern or sheer curiosity, I don't know, but something beckons me to answer that door.  
  
It's Steve. He's alone.   
  
"Where's Phil?" I ask. I don't even attempt to hide the irritation in my voice, which is something I usually would attempt to do so for Steve since he usually means well. I immediately regret it. I should have noticed the redness in his eyes when I first saw him. "Sorry," I say.  
  
"It's okay," Steve says softly. "I guess I came here for the same reason as you."  
  
I consider asking him again of Phil's whereabouts, but I assume that he's at the pub with Joe. "The collectively drunk and depressed shite gets old after awhile, eh?"  
  
Steve almost smirks, his expression then becoming as collected as before. "Joe slipped that you know about the...er, deal."  
  
"Oh god, that." I open the door all the way, gesturing Steve to come inside. "I don't think this is a conversation best discussed while standing in a doorway."  
  
  
"Did he find out?"  
  
Steve rubs at his temple. "No. I think that's what's making this unbearable. He's trying to be optimistic and it's all in vain and he doesn't even know it."  
  
There are so many things I want to say in response to this but I understand that Steve came to me for the sake of comfort. I may not give him particularly that, but I won't succumb to making him feel worse. Once again, there is nothing we can do. The contract is signed.   
  
"I didn't think out how he would feel in response to me leaving. All I thought of when I went through with this was that I was saving him... God, how could I be so bloody selfish?"  
  
I don't completely disagree with him.   
  
Well, at least he's being honest with himself.  
  
"Steve, don't take this too hard... but I think you've successfully fucked everything up." Steve sighs from behind the hands covering his face. "Don't immediately act on my recommendations, but I would figure out when exactly you're leaving and tell Phil the truth accordingly to that, then end the relationship."  
  
Steve lifts his face out of the veil of his hands, looking absolutely disgusted. "I did this because I love him, and you suggest we call it off?"  
  
Love is one of those small words that punches such a powerful blow. Terribly vague yet potent, altogether overused. I never know how to react to them because there isn't a scale of value, like how there is 'pianissimo', 'piano', 'mezzo piano', 'mezzo forte' and so on. Because there is only a single word of description instead of some chromatic motion of intensities, I have to assume the strength that the speaker is intending.  
  
Although, I have always seen Steve as one of those incredibly passionate and earnest people.  
  
"Whenever you get called in, how are you and Joe going to deal with it? Will you call it off with him too?" Steve's voice is on the verge of wavering, although his expression remains poised.   
  
"Considering that I didn't secretly organise a means of taking Joe's place when the time comes or vice versa, our situation will play out differently," I reply coolly, almost snide. "I think the most painless way to deal with a relationship in this predicament is to make it more... open. When I leave, the relationship is put on hold and, if possible, can continue if I return. Take into account that he hasn't moved on in my absence, which I would respect."  
  
"You seem very affectionate," Steve says dryly.   
  
"I'm being practical," I reply.   
  
  
Steve left around 1:30AM in no better of a mood, but possibly more organised in the mind. He seemed less distraught, which although is never too visible with Steve it was easy to detect the lifted wave of stress. I wouldn't be surprised if he still felt gloomy; I expect it, more or the less.  
  
Now, here I am, once again left to the mercy of a stack of ancient mystery novels and expired tea.   
  
Sleep, at this point, sounds the most appealing.   
  
  
The creak and close of the front door awakes me. In the darkness I can see a Phil-shaped figure meandering to the other bed. The shadow collapses onto the still-made sheets.  
  
The clock says 2:13AM.  
  
I assume that Steve would not return to the pub after our visit, which beckons a question: What has Phil been doing for the last few hours? He getting plastered is a likely answer, but without Steve? The only other candidate for drinking with would be Joe.  
  
Although, I don't smell booze.  
  
Christ, I'm not doubting anything.   
  
  
9:18AM. Phil's in the shower and I'm out on the balcony, drinking foggy tap water out of an overused plastic bottle. Compared to typical days, the street below is dead quiet. This doesn't particularly mean silence, but a lower volume is just as odd in such a busy area as this.   
  
I see the new waitress from the Paper Sun, Simona, walking below. The only other time I had seen her, her hair was pulled back. Today it is loose and I see that it is rather long and curly, the dark brown shade similar to Rick's.  
  
I dismiss that last deduction, and instead assert my thoughts elsewhere. Instead of looking down to the streets as I usually do, I look forward and see almost at my level another balcony of a parallel building; a hotel.   
  
Leaning on the railing is a red-headed woman who must be at least in her fifties. For the rest of the time I'm out on the balcony, she never looks up from her downward gaze to the street. I don't think she does it because she knows I'm directly in front of her, but rather because she believes that everything that is interesting is below her.   
  
I feel enlightened.


	8. Movement VII: Aleatory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm staring at that bobbing, golden mane of his and the evanescent white hand-prints he leaves on the skin of my hips whenever he lifts them to re-position and I feel completely gone, like one of those heavy-lidded junkies you find sitting on a park bench.

Movement VII  
 _Aleatory_  
  
Recent days have been diminished and dissonant, yet today sounds like the arpeggios of a minor chord. It doesn't resonate with the purity that a major chord exerts but, as the Eagles and Elton John (to name a couple) have proven in many of their songs, a minor key tonality doesn't always imply disharmony.   
  
Madhavi sets two mugs on the table and seats herself across from me.   
  
"What kind is it this time?" I ask.  
  
She raises her eyebrows. "Don't be getting rusty, Sieve... You tell me."  
  
I second her expression, but oblige and lift the mug to smell it since it's noticeably at a scalding temperature. It's brightly coloured with a brisk, almost fruity scent. Inwardly, it feels like several minutes that I ponder it, although in reality it must be a few seconds. "Assam," I reply.   
  
"You're getting slow," Madhavi says.   
  
I cross my arms. "I'm not here everyday anymore, Mads... Besides, all I've got at home right now is some expired Masala chai. You'll lose your sense of sight in good lighting if you spend all the time in a dark room."  
  
"I understand that your band has lost a member," she says, changing the subject suddenly yet fluidly, but then adding for the sake of conversational relevance: "Music business will fluctuate more in the war-time... What I'm getting at is that your position here will always be open."  
  
"Ah, I don't think that'll be necessary..." I take a deep inhale and notice the raising of Madhavi's eyebrows.   
  
She puts her hands on the table, leaning slightly forward in an all-business manner. It's rather slow right now at the shop and Simona is serving the few customers with ease. Without even speaking, we move ourselves and our beverages to one of the employee-only rooms.   
  
The back-room of the Paper Sun is far less luxurious than the one of the Lounge, yet nevertheless serves its purpose well while attaining an idiosyncratic atmosphere. We seat ourselves at the single table, leaving one chair empty as there are three total.   
  
"Does this information relate to the absence of Phil?"  
  
"You could say that, yeah..." I pause, mulling over what order and choice of words would best describe my situation. I hastily settle on four, simple words; no more than two syllables each: "I'm going to die."  
  
Madhavi's eyes go wide for a split-second until she comes to several conclusions for that statement. Now her eyes are narrowed and she's examining me with the context in mind to decide on just which conclusion is correct.   
  
"December has not been released as a month yet, no?"  
  
"I was told by someone, who probably knows what they're talking about, that it is so."  
  
Madhavi raises a hand to her face, pinching the bridge of her nose, and leaning back into her chair. "Phil too, then?"  
  
"No. Steve's sort of substituting for him, but... Sod, Phil might even be aware of it now for all I know." I pause. An epiphany. "I don't even know what I fucking know anymore." Somewhere in that sentence, my voice cracked and it was all over from there. Suddenly I'm sent back five years ago to this same table in this same back-room of the Paper Sun, hands covering my face and crying to a less grey-haired Madhavi about how my parents will probably disown me because the night before was spent in bed with a guy from my Eleventh Year English class. Little did I know that they would react far worse when they found out I was playing gigs in an abandoned theatre as my primary income.  
  
Hopefully this current situation is like that one: Handled absolutely poorly but in the end, works out. Although, this isn't the toils of a teenager discovering themselves; this is life or death, with the universe's preference for the latter.   
  
I'm quite sure that the last time anyone saw me cry, it was Madhavi on that exact night as mentioned. It wasn't even close to the waterworks I'm experiencing currently, now that I think of it. Because when absolutely sobbing or having a meltdown, you think about the last time you had it that bad, right? Am I the only person who does that? Anyways, I think I broke a personal record.   
  
It's always backwards. When I'm fuming inside, I'm usually cool outside. Right now, I don't even want to know how distraught I appear, but in here I'm relatively collected. Keep in consideration that I'm ignoring the streams of curse-words that are blinking in bright lights in front of my mind's eye like some sort of alarm.   
  
Madhavi may be a bit harsh, but in the very few situations like this she's experienced (with me, at least), she softens up a bit to the point where she's unrecognizable. I like to entertain the thought that after that emotionally ice-breaking experience we had five years ago, Madhavi said to herself: "This poor kid is either sociopath or I've finally found someone who thinks like I do and I must protect him at all costs."   
  
*  
  
Here's an FYI:  
  
The only reason why Phil didn't flank me, as usual, to the Paper Sun wasn't because I didn't want him to go. The reason why I even went out to get tea was because I haven't been able to find the lad all morning and, in the midst of all that's been happening, needed to let off some steam to one of the few people that I can trust to listen.   
  
I looked quite diligently for Phil too, mind you; I spent the entire morning skirting the premises for him until I realised that he's an adult and I shouldn't have to worry over him like that.   
  
Then again, I haven't spoke with him since the whole incident with Steve.  
  
He and Joe might've gotten so plastered that Joe had spilt it, and here I am drinking tea while Phil ferments in his toils with alcohol or whatever abuse, laying in some alley-way or pub or whatnot. All mere possibilities of course, but I know these people.   
  
Bollocks.  
  
We aren't people, we're emotional time-bombs.   
  
*  
  
Phil, or I assume it's Phil, is laying in bed whenever I return to the flat. He's laying at a particular angle so that I can't see his face and the sheets and pillow are all bunched up in a way that I can't see any defining feature. I find this odd because it's the afternoon. Although this, on any other day, would go unnoticed I still have reasons to consider this suspicious. In my mental time-line of what has happened over the last twenty hours or so, I concluded these notes: He came home ungodly late last night, slept (presumably), woke up before I did and left to god knows where, returned past noon, and then went back to sleep. Now, this could still make complete sense since he came home so late and left so early, allowing me to assume that he must have gotten no more than five hours of sleep and would therefore make total sense as to why he is sleeping now. Jesus Christ.   
  
I'm not trying to be the hovering mother of a teenager, I'm just mildly concerned and weary of this entire damn situation and don't want it to end in the direction that my pessimistically realistic point of view has conjured.   
  
I walk over to the other side of his bed so that I can look face-on and at least make sure this is Phil laying here. It is, both to my relief and dismay. Relief, because I've found him; Dismay, because there are drying tear streaks on his cheeks and he looks to be, rather than in a deep sleep, but in a harsh, most likely alcohol-induced unconsciousness.   
  
I sigh, inwardly, because I don't want to wake him up. At this point, it is no longer a matter of figuring out what's going on but rather trying to prolong the inevitable dealing with someone distressed. I've had enough of that with myself today.  
  
So, instead, I lay down in my own bed with a journal and a pencil and scribble out a poor excuse of a brainstorm of a new song. What's the point, though? By the time this creation reaches the near-perfected state in which it's only considered as a possibility for live performance, I may be already shipped off.   
  
Planning things without a specific date of my demise is a difficult task, you know.   
  
I've lost complete train of thought and am doodling an array of eighth notes in the margin of the paper when Phil sits up, looks directly at me with the most haunting and terminally guilty gaze, and says, "You'd never... judge me, right?"  
  
What the actual hell is going on?  
  
"Who'd you kill?" I ask, breaking into a short smile to show I'm kidding but instead absolutely destroying the mood because my voice came out flat and monotone with the most serious and dry tone, causing Phil, that poor bugger, to start bloody crying.   
  
Lord, or whoever or whatever the hell you are up there, help me. I know it's a bit late for raging hormones but I pray that's somehow the cause because, damn, not everyone is off their rockers, are they?   
  
"Ah shit, Phil, please tell me I'm not right," I say, getting up and sitting next to Phil on his bed. Phil rubs at his eyes and shakes his head in a way that I wouldn't take as a reply, rather the kind you see in the psych wards where the person accompanies it with incoherent ramblings. It's sort of frightening, honestly.   
  
"I-I-No. I didn't kill anyone." Phil sputters out the last few words with a short sob-interrupted laugh. "I... Fucking hell, this is ridiculous... You're going to kill me. Steve's going to kill me-"  
  
"Why am I and Steve going to kill you?" I ask calmly, although sparing him any comfort because Phil's typically serious in these situations; if he says that what he did will piss me off, he's usually right.   
  
He sputters, sobs, and pauses awhile more, giving me some time to decipher this situation. Phil did something either last night or this morning that would piss Steve and I off. Well, for starters, considering the state he's in now he probably got drunk with Joe last night. That was a given. But what could have been involved that would--  
  
Oh, bleeding Christ.   
  
Before I can ask, "Did you fucking shag my boyfriend last night?" we both hear a conveniently timed knocking on the door.   
  
We both sit in silence, staring at the front door until we can hear a muffled, "'Ey, it's Joe."  
  
Phil and I make eye-contact and I swear on my grave, it is the most exaggeratedly mentally slowed down action I have experienced in my life so far.  
  
"You going to get that?" I ask.  
  
"He's your boyfriend," Phil replies.  
  
I would have easily shot back with, "Well, he seems to also be your Arthur Dimmesdale" but the chances of the literary reference being understood in contrast with a blank, angry stare is at a skewed proportion.   
  
I get up, but before I can walk to the door I feel Phil's spindly fingers wrap around my wrist.  
  
"I've known you long enough to tell that you already have an idea of what's going on and what you have guessed, but you are mistaken," Phil begins, quickly. "We didn't shag, okay? We were both plastered and alone and... and as lonely as two people in stable relationships could be."  
  
"Hold on a sec!" I yell towards the door and then look back to Phil. "What the hell does that mean? You honestly can't tell me that you feel lonely with Steve, because he has invested his life in you." I pause after saying that because Phil isn't phased by it; he takes it as a metaphorically romantic thing, to invest someone's life, but in reality that statement is literal.   
  
Phil looks exasperated. "God, I expected you to at least defend you and Joe's relationship before mine and Steve's." Phil's mouth is open to say something else, but he doesn't. His eyes shift and I can tell it was going to be some verbal punch to my jaw. I suppose he doesn't want this to end in a fight. I can care less at this point.   
  
If you don't want anyone to follow you, then burn your bridges as you cross them.  
  
Another epiphany.  
  
I sigh. "What did you two do, exactly?"  
  
"He probably doesn't remember anything he told me, okay; just keep that in mind when you talk to him."  
  
"What did he tell you?"  
  
"Everything. About the deal and all that." I mentally breathe a sigh of relief, but it is instantly replaced with anger towards Joe for being so reckless, and at Phil for being so flighty about this situation, then some more and Phil again for playing the lonely card with Steve even though that bastard basically committed a potential suicide on his behalf.   
  
"He also told me how..." Phil rubs at his eyes and looks at me in a pitying yet admonishing way, as if he's pissed at me for making him tell me all this and now he has thrown in a thorn; something that would make me regret looking for information, but out of our strong relationship may regret it. "...how whenever you leave him for the draft, the loneliness he feels then wouldn't even be close to what he feels now."   
  
All the notes in my mind crashed down two-and-a-half steps, turning them from an average minor into a dark and evil diminished chord, laced with things like sharps and double-flats speckled about the suspended and dissonant notes like something a tone-death child would smash into a piano.   
  
I'm flabbergasted, more or the less.  
  
"I... I didn't even get the remote idea that he felt--"  
  
"There's your problem right there," Phil says. "If the word 'feel' or any tense is mentioned, it's out of your comfort zone. I have no idea what fuels your relationship, because it isn't communication."  
  
"Bollocks, we discuss things all the time," I say.  
  
Phil shakes his head. "No, not like that... Like you're distant in almost everything unless it pertains to something you're absolutely passionate about. It's like you're, and I paraphrase what Joe said... It's like you've hit your limit on commitment and you don't want to go any further."  
  
"Why become invested when I may leave at any moment?"  
  
Phil shrugs. "That's life in general, mate, just think about it. That's like not doing anything because there's a chance you'll get murdered or hit by a car on your way to work. The only thing different with our situations is that we know, for sure, that the bus is coming but death isn't particularly inevitable. But if you go in with that attitude, you're going to die. Alright?"  
  
Yeah, yeah, yeah.  
  
I get up to finally answer the door. My hand touches the handle and Phil says, "You still have time to make it all up to him."  
  
I exhale and open the door.  
  
"What took you so long?" Joe asks with an oblivious smile.  
  
I return with a smirk. "Ah, nothing. What's going on?"  
  
Joe's smile falters. "Sorry for just showing up. Don't lie, I'm not interrupting anything, right?"  
  
It's like we took fifty steps backwards in our relationship from the way we're talking. Smalltalk, business, politeness. Since when did Joe call prior, or even feel the need to? That was the first-few-weeks shenanigans.   
  
My mind feels even foggier than usual. Maybe a few gunfire sounds will break through, show me some sod like how I'm taking all this shit for granted; like one of those bloody war novels that's written by some bloke who's never even seen a sub-machine gun in person.  
  
I haven't seen one either, but that's beside the point.  
  
*  
  
Joe and I are at his flat and I'm playing with one of Steve's lesser-appreciated guitars, a rip-off model that's supposed to look like a Strat but was probably made in Mexico or China or somewhere like that and eventually ended up in an English pawn shop. It doesn't sound half bad, but I suppose being a lead guitarist is a position accompanied with being at least slightly pretentious.  
  
Joe, because maybe he and Steve are just at that level of trust or he just doesn't care, is playing on his black Gibson; Steve's pride and joy.  
  
"Steve's at work?"  
  
Joe nods, not looking up from the fretboard as he attempts to perfect some lick that he's absolutely butchering.  
  
"I suppose the guys in charge aren't aware of his, you know..."  
  
Joe looks up. "He's putting in a week notice today, I believe." He sets the Gibson onto its stand, gingerly and agonizingly slow, and then flops down onto the loveseat I'm sitting on, trying to straighten his legs so that his sock-donned feet are prodding at my side.   
  
"Move over," Joe grunts.  
  
"If I move any more, I'll be on the floor."  
  
Joe raises his eyebrows with an expression that says he's considering that.   
  
I narrow my eyes and we both glare at each other, all the while on the verge of breaking into a grin. I set the Strat onto the nearby stand and he fluidly changes position and wraps his arms around me, pulling me down with him so that we lay face-to-face.   
  
Phil's right, we need more communication.  
  
Stars are being reincarnated in Joe's irises while I shove my tongue into his mouth, wiping that smug smirk off of his face.   
  
This is our communication.   
  
I can't stress it much more.   
  
We're both awkwardly pulling off our trousers, faces still together, but somehow making it possible. We break apart to pull our shirts over our heads and Joe plants a wet kiss on my now-bare shoulder, traces his lips over my collarbone with the intention of doing some slow downward production to my crotch but becomes impatient and dives right in.   
  
Christ, someone's excited.   
  
Joe grabs my hip-bones for leverage and I curl my toes and heavily exhale from his lightly-calloused fingers gripping and slightly letting go with the same rhythm as his satin-textured lips.   
  
Joe is like acid.  
  
I'm staring at that bobbing, golden mane of his and the evanescent white hand-prints he leaves on the skin of my hips whenever he lifts them to re-position and I feel completely gone, like one of those heavy-lidded junkies you find sitting on a park bench.   
  
Drugs, sex, passion; it's all the same. You want it for that instant, current feeling of ecstasy without thinking of the bleak and empty aftermath; the junkie left with the need for more drugs, myself left with the burdening thought that this may be the last. We all hunger for the inevitable.  
  
I ejaculate soul and semen all over his pretty face,  
And I feel more alive than ever.


	9. Movement VIII: Toccata

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'll learn how to fire a gun, and how to duck and hide. You'll probably move in with Phil because, at this point, you two have a helluva lot in common. You'll adapt and I'll adapt, and I'll try my best to not die. Textbook stuff."

Movement VIII  
 _Toccata_  
  
When I hear the words of my demise, I am standing in the bathroom adjacent to Joe's bedroom. My feet are bare and pale against the off-white tiles of the floor and, for some reason, this seems like the most important detail in my life at this moment. Nothing can disrupt the connection I have with this floor, whose tiles seem to be so cold that even though I've been standing on it for nearly ten minutes, my body heat hasn't even warmed it slightly.  
  
I could easily put on clothes and move to the carpeted floor where then I'll be finally spared of cold feet, but I feel almost as if I'm clinging to this moment; frozen in this uncomfortable piece of the mundane.  
  
Sod it all. I begged to know my future out of convenience and now I know the date of my end and just want to jump to it already and watch everything go aflame. Or, I can just do what I do best: brush this information aside, shove it into the crevices of my mind with everything else that is subpar. Let's see how long I can procrastinate thinking about _this_.  
  
Up until this point, this morning would have been the perfect picture of domesticity. Down to the last detail, save for that damn radio; sitting on the bathroom windowsill at such an angle with the volume at a particular notch so that I can hear the broadcast just fine but anyone outside of this room is unaware.   
  
That said radio is the only one in the flat, which can lead me to deduct that I'm the only one here who knows. I know Phil and Steve must have heard the news since they're at my flat, but Joe is probably in the kitchen, shirtless and drinking coffee and all the while in a universe that is less stressful than mine because he's oblivious to the fact that his boyfriend's birth-month was just pulled from the bingo cage of bleeding World War III.   
  
In a surprisingly non-conceited turn, I find myself wondering how Phil and Steve are reacting to this. I was and still am shocked by how well Phil reacted to finding out about the big secret and whatnot, but I'm assuming the finality of this broadcast destroyed that emotional wall. I can assume they are currently in a weeping lover's embrace and here I am, standing in the bathroom and might as well be comatose with all the response I am showing in reply.  
  
I should let Joe know, I guess. I'm so drained from everyone showing so much emotion and lack-off recently that I'm halfway tempted to not say anything. It's not as if he won't eventually find out. It's inevitable.   
  
Huh. That's been a hot topic lately.  
  
**  
  
Joe is merely my paramour; my true partner is Analogies. I left Metaphors years ago for their simplicity, and Symbolism has a tendency to thrust herself into my soul despite our separation. But Analogies; Analogies I can take advantage of. I can manipulate him and he returns to me with beautiful words and insight, all woven together in proper syntax.  
  
Manipulate Metaphors and you'll piss off the English teachers; manipulate Symbolism and she'll confuse the hell out of everyone, but she's fun nevertheless; manipulate Joe and, after a while, he'll break down like a self-destructive enzyme.   
  
See what I did there?  
  
I see Music as a partner in an open-relationship. They get along well with Analogies because, every once in a while, we can all get together for a romp.  
  
Although, Music sees us more as mistresses. Music and Mathematics share a bond that makes them more similar and well-matched than with any other piece of the English language. When Music is catalysed, you see that they are merely patterns with the mirage of possible improvisation; nothing is truly made new. Every combination has already been discovered, all you have to do decipher and tweak, maybe move around a few things until it sounds Audibly Pleasing. In reality, this Audibly Pleasing is just the usage the same few chord types in a simple Major/Minor key. You can't change too much without things becoming messy, like derivable equations. "Simplicity is bliss," said the Human Brain.  
  
Bollocks, I did it again.  
  
Why am I rambling?  
  
Distraction. If my life were to be compiled into a psychoanalytical report, a massive section would be dedicated to a tab called _Sav's Various Means of Coping and the Procrastination of Said Emotion_. I'm putting off feeling the emotion of stress by thinking about the language arts personified and, honestly, I'm already feeling guilty and dirty at the thought of cheating on Joe with a form of a literary device. My entire existence is a fucking analogy.   
  
And I know I'm not going crazy. I know. It may take minutes to hours, days maybe, weeks for the exception of Joe, to analyse other people but it's taken my entire life to finally deduct a few words about myself. I'm constantly analysing because, involuntarily, I'm trying to fix everything. I break down something as complex as a feeling or emotion into something as 2-dimensional as a linear equation and try to work from there. Why linear? Because it's the most basic and primitive form of the derivable equation, and simplicity is bliss.   
  
The primary issue with this technique is that emotions, feeling, people... These things are far more complex than even the ugliest function. Like this situation. This situation right here is like Integral Calculus on steroids and I haven't even touched an Algebra textbook in years. My natural instinct is to run and procrastinate the hell out of going through that pain.   
  
So, what are my options?   
  
  
After a moment of recalibration (i.e. making myself look not as absolutely flustered and wrought out as I really am), I put out the effort to find Joe and try to piece everything back together. I find him sitting at the cluttered kitchen table, holding one particular paper with a look of extreme interest.  
  
I take the adjacent seat and examine the discarded envelope of the said paper. It's covered with an array of military-grade stamps.  
  
"Rick?" I ask.   
  
Joe nods, eyes still travelling down the page. "He can't release where he's stationed at, but wherever he is, it's snowing. Profusely. Apparently they've already lost several lads in his platoon to hypothermia."  
  
Note to self: Do not say anything about the broadcast until the topic of the poor living conditions of the location I will most likely be sent to is discarded.  
  
"That's... horrible," I mutter. "He's in the Infantry then, I assume."  
  
"Aye. The kid can barely drive a stick-shift so I doubt they'd sort him into the Air fleet."  
  
I shrug. "Piloting isn't particularly common knowledge; once they run out of them they'll have to teach us civilians."   
  
Joe nods, then gestures towards me with the paper. "I'm done with it, you want to read?"  
  
"Maybe later. I've got the idea anyhow."  
  
"Alright," Joe says, almost sounding disappointed but looking unsurprised. Now that I'm aware, I wonder how many times he has reacted to me with that passive disenchantment. He folds and inserts the paper back into the envelope in a manner so neat and delicate that I feel uneasy. "I think it would be great if we could all write back. You know, get Steve and Phil and us and we can all enclose our own message to him. Then we could all split the cost in shipping-"  
  
Joe, the Enthusiast.  
  
"-and he'd probably be pretty excited to get four letters at once instead of one, right? It sounds bleak as hell over there and it'd be a good distraction."  
  
Top priority, those Distractions.   
  
"You okay, love?"   
  
No, I'm not okay, Joe.   
  
I won't be okay until I talk to you and get this load off of myself; clear my conscious of wasting your apparent time for the last few months and then make up those said months now because I don't know if I'll have another chance.  
  
"I'm fine," I reply.  
  
Damn it.  
  
I just reassured every negative notion in his mind. Suck it up, Sav. Get it together.  
  
"You got awfully pale there for a second. Like you'd seen a ghost." Joe added that last sentence breathlessly with a slight, uneasy smile as if he's reassuring himself that I really am okay rather than trying to lighten up my end of the situation.   
  
"I... I need to talk to you."  
  
Joe's eyes widen slightly and I detect fear.   
  
"Are you happy? I mean, do you feel lonely with me? Because I've been thinking about it. We've been together for months and I still don't know your favourite colour or if you like ice cream or not. The only long conversations we have are initiated by important events but when it's something mundane, it's usually short and forced because I have, for some unknown reason, the idea that small talk is insignificant even though relationships will not flourish without real communication. And it's all my fault, I know. You are trying to make us better and I'm just sitting here projecting my idea of what you and I should be when, in reality, it's all just a shadow play and I'm the only actor."  
  
Joe exhales and leans back into his chair, rubbing his face. "That's us in a nutshell."  
  
"I'm sorry if you've felt that you've wasted your time or-"  
  
"Wasted my time? If I felt this relationship wasn't going anywhere I would have ended it a long time ago. You're an introvert. I understand that. Yes, sometimes I feel exceptionally alone and irritated because we live separately and you're not the most talkative person. Sometimes I wish I could hear all of those thoughts in your head but then I remember just how eccentric you are and how confusing that would be. We're wired differently, but that isn't anything negative."  
  
A pause.  
  
"Red and yes," Joe adds.  
  
"What?"  
  
"My favourite colour is red and I love ice cream. Thought I should clear that up." Joe smiles slightly. "You know, you mentioned that projection thing and that's normal. There was this one chap, Jung I think. He's written essays about that. Anyway, relationships are built upon projection, but the real test is understanding that the person in front of you may not fit into that perfect picture and then accepting them for that."  
  
He gets it.   
  
I mentally execute all this psychological blurb about my perfect pictures of domesticity and how this poor bloke doesn't always fit perfectly and here, right now, he recites textbook concepts. I've always been so immersed in my own thoughts to realise that, possibly, he's been analysing and manipulating me in the same way.   
  
And here we are, back to that first impression of him I had in Steve's truck; the one that screamed he had underlying intentions that I later brushed aside and instead placed the label of antagonist on myself. Unless, maybe, we are both the antagonist.   
  
God, I wish I had more time because I think I've fallen in infatuation with him all over again. Although, to fall again one must first climb out; and I know that, despite everything, my attraction to the aesthetic qualities of Joe has never faltered. So, what is a step above infatuation? Is it that concept of acceptance that Joe mentioned?   
  
But, isn't that step also known as the elusive L-word? The fatal amour that all great literary heroes succumb and burn for?   
  
Oh, please, don't be that. It's too late. If I say that damned, overused three-word sentence then it will destroy us.   
  
But, then again, when was the last time I ever even considered uttering it?  
  
Joe raises his eyebrows in that familiar deviant way. "Why're you looking at me like that?"  
  
"I need to tell you something else," I say.   
  
"Yeah?"   
  
I can't do it.  
  
I'm already thinking ahead to the outcome and I regret even initiating this.  
  
Oh bloody hell, that hopeful look on his face; he thinks he knows what I'm about to say. Sorry, babe. I am so sorry. It's not that the promise isn't empty, it's that it has an expiration date.   
  
"I'm leaving in four days."  
  
I could have stabbed him in the chest and received the same reaction. His face softens and his gaze shifts down to somewhere unimportant. He parts his lips slightly, as if to say something, but he closes his mouth and fidgets slightly.   
  
Joe stands up and wordlessly walks into his bedroom, closing the door behind him.   
  
Shit.  
  
  
I don't know long I've been sitting at that cluttered table with my face in my hands. The concept of time is, ironically, unimportant as of now. All that runs through my mind is all the alternate ways I could have executed that last exchange. I could have spilled those sappy feelings and then, later, told him about me leaving. I could have done this. I could have done that. It doesn't matter; one way or another Steve and I will be out of the picture in less than a week. It doesn't matter what bridges stay functioning and which ones burn before we leave, because the chances are that neither of us will live to see how well they held up in the erosion of time and unappealing battle scars.  
  
I feel foreign fingers gently run through my hair and I realise that I'm shaking and my hands are wet. I feel an arm wrap around me and I'm now standing up. I'm walking. I now feel the give of a mattress below me. I unveil my face and see through damp vision that I'm in Joe's room and we're both sitting on the edge of his bed.   
  
"I shouldn't have walked out like that. That was probably the most fucked up thing I could have done," Joe says. "We're supposed to support each other." He's staring off at nowhere in particular and his entire face is damp and pink, green irises blazing in the contrast. I feel like disappearing.   
  
"No. Your reaction was understandable," I say. "Timing isn't one of my strong suits." I give him a small smile and he returns it half-heartedly.   
  
"With news like that, I don't think the timing really matters." A sigh. "What do we do now?"  
  
"I'll learn how to fire a gun, and how to duck and hide. You'll probably move in with Phil because, at this point, you two have a helluva lot in common. You'll adapt and I'll adapt, and I'll try my best to not die. Textbook stuff."   
  
"I'll write to you as much as possible."   
  
"Likewise."  
  
**  
  
"Phil, I understand your situation sucks but you need to get a hold of yourself."  
  
"He's fucking leaving me! Why couldn't I have gone? What part of me screams incapable? He's the fucking weak one, he couldn't live without me."  
  
I shouldn't have even come back here. I'm sick of dealing with all this crap. I should have gone to the Paper Sun instead. In every situation so far, Madhavi has proven to be the only emotionally stable person on this entire planet. Even if she were to, for once, react based on anything but intuition, I doubt it would leave me feeling as toxic as I feel now.   
  
Phil had gone from a sobbing, snotty mess to pure, boiling anger within ten minutes of Steve's departure and I don't know whether to feel frightened, pitying, or just plain annoyed. I can completely understand where he's coming from, but for once I wish he could comprehend the concept of coping silently. Go kick a fucking fence-post for all I care, just be quiet or leave me be.  
  
Because, honestly, nothing feels more degrading when a person [Phil] in a different situation is complaining in a manner that makes the situation you [me] are in look inferior. Yeah, mate, your boyfriend is leaving for the war. That sucks. Guess what? I'm going to be fighting in it alongside him.   
  
Ah, mood-swing #2. Phil collapses onto his bed and is sobbing into his pillow and is incoherently babbling what I would guess are one-sided apologies. Again. I guess I should have expected this whenever I assumed his emotional wall had been compromised. I really hope he wasn't this horrible with Steve because, even though I may disagree with his actions, what I am seeing makes Joe's abandonment tactic look like positive feedback.  
  
Not to sound absolutely self-centred, but I'm almost insulted that he hasn't even acknowledged my predicament.  
  
"Phil."  
  
"What?" His voice is muffled against his pillow.  
  
"Acting like an infant isn't going to help anyone."  
  
"Fuck you."  
  
"Likewise, wanker."   
  
Phil sits up. "Do you really want to start shit right now? I am not in the mood to deal with your-"  
  
"Oh, because your problem is so much worse than mine? Sod off, mate. I'm the one who's not in the mood and I'm still handling all of this better than you are."  
  
Phil doesn't say anything for a while and I'm honestly surprised. I expected this to end in a really sad excuse of a fistfight.   
  
"I'm being completely abandoned here, man. If I were to just lose Steve, we both know that you'd be the one to help put me back together. But you're leaving too and I--" Phil's voice cracks and he averts his gaze to his hands. "How am I supposed to cope when I'm completely alone?"  
  
I run through all of the possible responses and eventually settle with: "I don't know. But you'll find a way." This will not be an empty promise. This will not be an empty promise. This will-"You survive; I'll survive. I will come back from this war and you'll be here to greet me, okay? Remember that. Find your solace and wait for me."   
  
With quivering lips, Phil smiles. "I love you, Sav."  
  
"I love you too."  
  
To my surprise, it felt like the most natural thing to say. 


	10. Movement IX: Diminuendo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Damn dirty hippie," Steve says in a forced American accent and we both laugh until the woman approaches him. He hands her the packets and they briefly exchange a polite smile; short-lived and instant, like generic coffee from a vending machine.

Movement IX  
 _Diminuendo_  
  
I haven't seen a watercolour sunset through a foggy bus window in a very long time. It must have been when I was in school, because as of the last five or so years I've picked up the habit of walking everywhere. I don't know whether the feeling this picture emits is nostalgia or mere Déjà-vu, because I'm not sure if I would want to go back to that piece of my past or just acknowledge it.   
  
It was a lot simpler back then.   
  
God, I sound like I'm getting old.   
  
Fresh scenes keep on repeating in my head. We all stayed at Joe and Steve's flat last night after our own British rendition of _The Last Supper_ ; pub food and pints instead of bread and wine. We all played nice because that's what people do, in the way that you wouldn't be an arse to a person with a terminal disease.   
  
Joe didn't say much the entire night. He would glance at me with actor's smiles, every time making me feel more insecure and aware of my mistakes. That one American country song by Steve Wariner seems to be exceedingly relevant: "It's not what I did, it's what I didn't do".   
  
I can beat myself up all I want for this, but at this point I realise that it wouldn't be any use. Maybe this whole process will end like in the movies; I come home as a new man and ride off into the sunset with my love, leaving the audience with the clear conscious that the hero they were rooting for turned out to not be a total prick in the end.   
  
But, as of the present, that's all water under the bridge.   
  
I glance to Steve, who's sitting to the left of me. In any other case I think he would have fought for the window seat; I once heard Phil say that he was peculiar about stuff like that, like he was claustrophobic. Although, when taken from your bed at five in the morning to get onto a three-and-a-half hour long bus ride to London where you will then fly for an unknown amount of time to some unspecified area. I wouldn't really care much at this point either.  
  
Steve is looking out the window as well with a half-alert expression, the pinks and oranges of the sky reflecting off of his pale face and hair.   
  
We've been riding the bus for what must have been an hour, and I haven't heard a single word. Keep in mind that nearly every seat is taken.   
  
One of the tyres hits a bump and the entire cab shakes. I exhale and close my eyes.   
  
  
**Two Days Prior**  
  
"Forget about him, you have bigger fish to fry," Madhavi says, blowing rings of smoke. "Although, you shouldn't flatter yourself either, you were a bit of a _gaand_." She shrugs her shoulders in a nonchalant, 'oh well' kind of way and takes another puff of hookah.   
  
"Excellent advice," I say, massaging an index finger against my right temple.   
  
Madhavi raises an eyebrow. "I don't apologise for telling the truth. Besides, I think the biggest fish here is you. He is not the issue, he just shed the light on it."  
  
"You're telling me things I already know."  
  
"Then why haven't you fixed it yet?"  
  
That shut me up. I lean back into my seat and sigh.   
  
"Your very existence is contradicting itself, _Seive_. If you are such the problem solver you claim to be, then why is this simple task such an issue, hm? The whims of the romantic soul should not even effect some logician as yourself. Unless," Madhavi narrows her eyes, "you have softened in this man's midst? It can happen to the best of us, you know. It can turn the coldest analyst into a slobbering, stupid dog."  
  
"Mads, you can't be considering that," I say. "I don't even know what love is. From my understanding, it's just a distracting, higher degree of infatuation or friendship."  
  
Madhavi blows out a perfect ring, giving the evanescent shape a smug smirk before it dissipates. "So it is, but you underestimate the power of human emotion. Which, I would think you of all people would know," she smiles wryly, "You do fear it, after all."   
  
*  
  
Steve's elbow nudges my arm. I must have dozed off. A woman is passing out a packet of paperwork and pen to each person.  
  
"Answer each question truthfully," she says in a monotone voice. This is probably her job: accompanying the fresh meat. She has probably said this speech a dozen times already; the Grim Reaper's stewardess. "This allows us to see what experience you currently have and will help us decide how to disperse you. We have approximately," she checks her watch, ".two hours until we arrive at our first stop in London. This needs to be in our hands and evaluated a half-hour before then. You will have an hour to complete this."  
  
I receive my paperwork and immediately fill out the first five questions: Legal Name; Date of Birth; Height/Weight; Occupation; Legal Name/Address of Next of Kin. I barely hesitated with even the fifth question. They could have easily written "Who gets the body?" instead and have filled less space. I'll let my parents deal with that. They know what to do and how to disperse the news and whatnot; they've lived through this kind of thing before.   
  
The sixth questions is: "Can you operate an automobile?" accompanied by a simple yes/no answer.   
  
I know what Rick answered, and look at where he is now. I consider "sort of" to be sufficient enough for a "yes" and circle that option. Whatever increases my chances of being sorted into the Air fleet or any other position besides being on the ground will do. Anything is better than freezing to death.  
  
Then again, it is colder at high altitudes.  
  
Question Seven: "Can you operate any form of aircraft?"  
  
Forget question six, this is where they decide. Although, "I've never even been in a plane" is definitely not adequate to answer "yes".   
  
I chew on the end of the pen for a minute and glance at Steve, who appears to already be halfway through. I should do the same and not over-think every question. They'll probably just look at the first few questions, see immediately that my occupation is "musician" and throw me into the Infantry. Maybe I'll get lucky and be sorted into Logistics. Or is that even an option?  
  
The remaining questions are part of some personality test. Although, there is only about twenty questions and I consider that to be a bit inaccurate. Bloody hell, does it even matter? Are they really going to evaluate our answers or are they just trying to enforce the idea that the position we get, whether it's the worst and most high-fatality rate grunt's job or working with navigation in the safety of some base, that it is not based upon random choice but that we dug ourselves into that hole with our career choices and just being who we are as individuals?  
  
I circle the first answer choice on every question of the personality portion of the exam and write, in large letters after the last: "I AM A MUSICIAN WHO WANTED TO BE AN ENGLISH TEACHER BUT COULDN'T BECAUSE OF THE ECONOMY AND YOUR POOR CHOICES AS A COUNTRY. NOW I AM GOING TO PROBABLY DIE FOR THE SAME REASON. BECAUSE OF THE 'GREAT' MEDIA COVERAGE, I DON'T KNOW WHO OR WHAT I AM FIGHTING. WHAT THE HELL ARE WE EVEN FIGHTING FOR?"  
  
I probably destroyed any chance of having a safe position but you know what? I don't care. For once, I'm not going to be excessively tedious and plan my every move. What could they possibly do that is worse than this? It's not like I'm planning on committing treason; I'll shoot who they want me to shoot because someone is telling the people on the other side to shoot me and I'm not sure if they'll have any second thoughts about it.   
  
Steve's patiently waiting for the stewardess of death to return, doodling on the margin of the first page, when I hand him my finished product. He immediately flips over to the back page of mine, having seen me fervently scribbling earlier, and raises his eyebrows as he reads the words.   
  
"Damn dirty hippie," Steve says in a forced American accent and we both laugh until the woman approaches him. He hands her the packets and they briefly exchange a polite smile; short-lived and instant, like generic coffee from a vending machine.   
  
After a while more, Steve asks, "Do you think we'll be separated? I don't remember answering a lot of first-choice answers on the test so I know our results will differ."  
  
"I have a theory that that section won't matter, but with all of our luck lately, I really don't know what to think." I exhale and study the grey threading on the back of the seat in front of me. "I'm sorry for always being the lame third wheel. Even though I shouldn't really apologise for something like that, given the context."  
  
Steve laughs, and I start to feel that same fascination I had with him whenever he and Phil started dating. I guess I'm feeling that because I know he's the only person left I really know. If we're separated, given the chance that Rick and I are not sorted together and every other worst case scenario, I will never see anyone I've known again. I understand there's a bond between the people in platoons, or at least the movies make it seem that way, but sitting next to me is the remaining relic of my past. My life.   
  
Or, maybe, I'm finally letting go to the suppression of feelings I had for this guy before Phil got him. I remember playing that jealous best friend trope in the beginning; hoping they would break up and I would sweep in like a total sodding arse and have Steve for myself. It was a very short-lived experience as I soon found out that those two blokes were in it for the long run; something I still can't truly comprehend.  
I feel a contradictory mixture of guilt and nonchalance.   
  
  
**Roughly Seven Hours Later**  
  
I have no clue where we are.   
  
Our group, which tripled in population after transferring to London, is standing in a chaotic crowd when a small group of figures of unidentifiable gender take position in front. They are donning olive drabs and berets, all holding their heads at a slightly elevated level so that the crowd instantly zones in and takes a respected stance. One of them, who I have now identified as being a man, begins to call out names.   
  
I hold my breath.  
  
Twenty or so names go by when I hear Steve's. I glance to him and he returns with a worried look. As he's walking away, he turns his head and mouths the words: "Good luck".  
  
I wait to hear my name but the man ceases speaking, taking the chosen group with him.   
  
I hope that the tightening feeling creeping on me, sucking out all of the nearby oxygen, isn't the product of my body's premonition that I'll never see Steve again.   
  
  
Symbolism is everything in the life of the picturesque literary hero. At the beginning of their quest for Enlightenment or anything of similar value, they are typically in their mid-thirties. For example, Dante was about 35 when he went into the Inferno, Hamlet was 30 at the beginning of the play, and Christ was supposedly 33 at his crucifixion. This makes sense because the number three is popularly seen as a masculine and heavenly number.   
  
The unmentioned examples are vast. If literature and religion are consistent in anything, it's that they are both in agreement with their ideal protagonist.   
  
I don't believe in fate; I believe that predicaments can obstruct our view to obtain a satisfactory life and, sometimes, within these problems are opportunity.  
  
This isn't just me fighting in a war, this is me entering the Inferno; my quest for Enlightenment.  
  
I'm just getting a head-start.  
  
  
It's not until two more groups have been called and dispersed that I finally hear my name. The voice that calls me is one obviously belonging to a woman, but so distinct in that it has a masculine resonance. As I walk forward, I see that she is rather short and stocky, with a complexion like orange-brown paint splattered on a pasty-white canvas.   
  
We begin walking, a large crowd following this small woman. Still looking forward, she says in her booming voice, "Welcome to the British Infantry." My heart sinks into my stomach. ".I am Lieutenant Rospondek. You have been drafted into the Royal Battalion, where we are headed to the primary grounds for training. The group you currently are in will look quite similar to the platoon you will be sorted into, which will consist of typically 20 souls." She takes a glance towards us. "Hopefully, though, your platoon will not look too similar as this. You lot look scared shitless.'  
  
"Although, they say that training's supposed to fix that. I honestly wouldn't know. I've sweated blood for this promotion and here I am, first day on the job, babysitting you tossers."  
  
  
With every snip of the scissors in my hair, I feel another piece of my soul become diminished.  
  
At least they're not giving me a buzz-cut. I couldn't stand a shaved head, no matter how much more 'safer in the midst of battle' it would be. I argued with the lieutenant prior to this and made the mistake in thinking that women were spared from this treatment (I honestly thought they were) when she took off her beret, revealing that the only remaining traces of hair were strands no longer than a centimetre.   
  
Fortunately, there isn't any particular laws prohibiting long hair. Although, there are issues with mine. 'Too long, too curly, and therefore could be an endangerment.' The compromise would have typically been for me to wear my hair tied back, but I think at this point there was personal spite involved. The altered compromise was then to cut my hair so that, at the longest, it barely brushed past my ears. A hairdo I haven't donned since. I honestly can't remember if I ever even wore my hair that short before. Infancy, maybe?   
  
As I'm looking at the finished product in the mirror in front of me, I can see Rospondeck through the reflection, smirking.   
  
"Next one," she calls and a fellow long-haired lad walks in. She raises her eyebrows. "Out you go, pretty boy."   
  
  
I feel like I'm in prison, reducing each day to a number and then carving it into the cell walls with my fingernails. Today is Day I, Tomorrow is Day II, The Next Day is...  
  
  
 **Day VI**  
  
A bullet wizzes past my head and I slam myself to the ground. Behind me, the others scurry like roaches in the light. I climb into a nearby ditch; a roughly circle-shaped crater with about a five-foot radius. The ground is still smoking, in the centre of the hole the shattered remnants of a tank missile.   
  
I begin to bury myself in the loose mixture of dirt and melting snow that makes up the curved wall of the crater; a cool, slightly damp mixture. The drier dirt cascades over my shoulders like a dusty waterfall while the cold mud congeals around my neck.   
  
They won't shoot the same spot twice, right? And, in theory, the hole should be too deep that any tank-driver would hesitate to drive over, fearing it would flip the vehicle. The only thing I have to worry about is some foe jumping in for the same reason as I or them knowing where I am and tossing in a grenade.  
  
Right?  
  
Maybe if I dig myself deep enough, they'll just think I'm dead. Good. This is camouflage. If I just prop my rifle like this, barrel pointed straight forward towards the centre but in a casual way that it won't make me seem conscious, no one would suspect a thing. Before they can even come to the conclusion that I was just some poor trigger-happy bloke who got caught in the tank-fire, I'll have them down.  
  
I can live with this.  
  
I haven't killed anyone point-blank yet, but I can live with this. Totally.   
  
Theoretically, this would solve my first problem. In the case of a grenade being thrown in here, it would completely depend on how far it lands from me. In the case it lands on the far end of the crater, the travel of the blast radius would give me enough time to jump out of the crater. Although, the chances of the grenade-thrower being on the surface is certain. I could just turn around and bury myself (face-on, of course) farther into the crater wall and hope that the military-issue uniform plus the coat I found on a discarded body would suffice in defending me, to an extent, from the blast.   
  
In the case that the grenade were to hit the centre or on any of my half of the hole, I would be toast. Figuratively and literally.   
Or, despite the placement of the grenade's landing, the crater would trap the explosion in like a bowl, absolutely frying anything inside of it.  
  
Conclusion: this is not a sufficient hiding place.  
  
I can see, looking up from my position, the upper half of people running by. Of course, I'm facing towards our home-line with absolutely no idea of the enemy whereabouts behind me. The only recognisable shape is the designated medic of our platoon, some pretty-faced lad with hair that I can't believe passed protocol. He makes eye-contact with me, blue eyes piercing through the distance.  
  
He takes a step back, a stricken look on his face, and slides his index finger over his throat. He moves his lips to mouth something but the distance makes it exceptionally difficult. I narrow my eyes and he repeats.  
  
"Do. Not. Move."  
  
He fires a few shots in my direction, the messy array of bullets travelling about a metre above my head, then runs a few yards to jump behind a discarded MWMIK. I hear a grunt and the dirt my head is slightly submerged in gives, a sudden force of weight slamming onto the top of my helmet and knocking me forward.   
  
I hit the ground and see stars. It must have been a body because there's probably about 170 pounds of weight pushing down on my upper half and I'm too disoriented to move it. Fortunately, it's not laying on me in such a way that I can't breathe but I can already feel the slight claustrophobia of being held down.   
  
Deal with it. It's either comfort or death.  
Its compatriots could be walking around us right now, expecting me to be dead as well. Or, we could be completely alone. I have no bloody clue because half of my face is pressed into the dirt and all I can see is the section of the crater where the ground begins to curve into the wall.  
  
I stare into the dirt, studying how the moisture reflects the sunlight and the shadows of people running by on the high ground, and the discarded, blackened bullet shells laying on the surface. I feel a hot wetness seeping onto my back and try to figure out if the body's wounds are just now beginning to flow more profusely or if, in the midst of death, it is emptying its bowels.   
  
I feel like crying. Day Three of being out in the field and I already feel like I'm going to go insane. I imagine, instead of dirt in front of me, it is Joe. I want to go back to those mornings when I had nothing to truly worry about and we would lay face-to-face. The projection-era of the relationship may be toxic in context, but it was at that time when everything was still okay in our universes. Everything there was to worry about was only in the future, but now it's lying on my back and surrounding me.   
  
I wonder if Steve is miles away, wherever his platoon is fighting, and he's lying in some crater like I am and is thinking about Phil. Possibly, Rick is doing the same and is thinking about his mum or Joe because I remember the way he would always get so flustered around him. There was an adolescent's longing, the unreachable goal, in that kid's eyes. I wonder if the target of that lust is now replaced with something primitive like survival.   
  
Survival sounds like a lovely shag; I'd rather lust over that than ghosts.  
  
I hold my breath, take account of the silence and lack of shadows on the ground, and push against the body on top of me. It slowly slides off and heavily hits on the ground, face-up with a soaked crotch and the only blood is exiting from its newly-disfigured face. I feel queasy. I see the medic, still behind the vehicle, leaning against one of the tyres with his eyes sky-bound and lips moving as if in prayer, rifle lying on the ground next to him. I see several empty magazines discarded around it.   
  
I stumble across the diameter of the crater, taking constant glances in every direction but I seem to be invisible. It's whenever I've got half of my body over the wall that I hear the cocking of a pistol ring out, the click that turns off the safety.   
  
I freeze, my gaze lingering over to that vehicle, hoping to at least make eye-contact with the medic. In the case that the pistol-wielding foe behind me doesn't take my stagnancy as the perfect opportunity for a head-shot, I could have the reassurance that's there's a chance I would be noticed immediately by someone qualified in bullet-wounds.  
  
I instead find the position by the tyre vacant.  
  
I hear a yell accompanied by an immediate gun-shot from behind me and turn around to see the pistol-wielder, a woman, slammed back-first onto the ground by the medic. The attacker's hand twitches towards the discarded gun and the medic punches her directly into the face simultaneously until the hand lays limp. He wipes his knuckles into the dirt and then stands up, using the sleeve of his other arm to dab at the specks of blood on his forehead and cheeks.   
  
"D'you have any ammo?" he asks as he approaches me. He has a very distinct Irish accent. I nod, almost dazed, remembering that I probably only fired a maximum of five shots today. Fear and perfectionism don't mix well. He walks past, motioning me to follow.  
  
"Alright, I'm sure that she was the last one. A scavenger, more or the less. I got a call from our lovely Lieutenant," he taps a finger on the comm. link mount on his helmet, something I don't have because of the current position of dispensability. "...that we are to head back." His eyes quickly scan over me. "First day out of training?"  
  
I'm assuming a position like a medic is similar to being popular in the American high-school. Everyone knows who they are for obvious reasons, but that doesn't particularly mean that it goes both ways.   
  
"Third, actually," I reply, feeling almost embarrassed. Why should I? I haven't been killed yet. I haven't compromised an entire mission (well, I haven't been on any particular missions.). I haven't done anything wrong.  
  
"Ah well, it takes a while before the groove sets in," he says. "You know, before this gig, I had no bleeding idea about anything medical. I earned myself the chops from patching myself up; Rospondeck noticed and requested I get some formal training. Basically, what I'm saying is that if you last long enough, you'll find your niche here."   
  
He steps over a body, backtracks, and bends down to pull some magazines out from its uniform pocket.   
  
"I noticed you running around today. You're an efficient lad, I can see that. Don't like to waste bullets and would rather hide yourself in someone else's grave and roost instead of going head-on. You'd probably make a good sniper. I can dig that. and so can you, apparently." He laughs for a moment and I reply with an unsure half-smile. This guy oozes charisma. It's almost as if all of the ego and charm of Joe, executed in a non-contradictory and easy-to-read manner, was compacted into a lad the same size of Phil. It's a bit daunting, to be honest. "So, what's your name?"  
  
"Sav."  
  
He raises his eyebrows. "Haven't heard that one before. Anyhow, I'm Vivian."  
  
He tucks the newly found magazines into the crook of his armpit and extends a hand. I take it and we shake.   
  
"Haven't heard you talk enough to tell your accent. Where're you from?"  
  
"Sheffield," I reply.   
  
He raises his eyebrows. "Ah. I don't think I've ever been there. Over in Yorkshire, right?"  
  
"South Yorkshire, yeah."  
  
"Well, South Yorkshire, meet Northern Ireland," he says, gesturing a hand towards himself.  
  
"Oh, I would've never expected that," I reply. "Let me guess, Belfast?"  
  
Vivian raises his eyebrows. "I'm that easy to read, eh?"  
  
"Sadly, I'm afraid so."  
  
Vivian laughs again and he wraps an arm around my shoulders, which pulls me down slightly and almost causes me to trip. "I like you, Savvy. Try to survive and all that sod; I'd like to have a pint with you when this is all over."


	11. Movement X: Fanfare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There must be something in the air that beckons the restless to come out. You could easily stay in the semi-warmth of the barracks and quietly be eaten alive by thoughts, or you could walk outside into the blistering, uncomfortable cold to do the same damn thing. Maybe it's some chemical imbalance in our bodies that exerts that staying alive instinct during the day, but reverses at night. So we fight and claw to live only to want to die as soon as the sun sets.

Movement X  
 _Fanfare_  
  
  
 **Day ???**  
  
I've come to the conclusion that snare drum-rolls are so popular in military culture because they mimic the sound of automatic gunfire. Tat-tat-tat-tat-pow-pow. Whatever. Although, in that respect, that's a bit ignorant. Why would you have an instrument mimicking weapon-fire go onto the field with the soldiers, like in the old days? Wouldn't that be distracting? Like radio stations that have commercials with car-horns sounds; horrible, I tell you. Nothing is more disorienting than riding with Steve when he hears that and begins to whirl around and look through the mirror, muttering to himself, "Who the fuck do they think they are" and whatnot.   
  
Oh, maybe I should have used past-tense when referring to that situation.   
  
I don't know. This is the kind of stuff that keeps me awake at night; instead of Joe in between my legs or whatever sexual or romantic position that would keep a couple busy at the ungodly hour. Forget all that, I'm here thinking about the similarities of instruments and warfare. I can't help but be reminded of that one dream Phil told me about; the one where they used guitars at weapons.  
  
Again, distractions. I got a letter from Joe yesterday about how he and Phil have moved in together for "monetary reasons" and how Rick has come home from the war but no one has seen him yet. According to his mum, he received an honourable discharge. But all that's confidential because she says that he doesn't want anyone to know and he's been cooped up in his house since he came home. Joe thinks he got disfigured somehow, like on his face or something visible. Or, maybe he's developed some emotional trauma and he needs to readjust before returning to their world.   
  
Poor kid. He survived, though, which is a surprise in itself.   
  
Now, don't peg me into the jealous category, but I think that there's more to monetary reasons between Joe and Phil. I can't be jealous because we've discussed this; the relationship is practically open between us now. Sort of. I mean, if he shags someone he isn't going to advertise it to me but I'd understand and expect the action. Sex is sex; natural animal tendency. As long as there's no strings attached, that is.   
  
Now, Phil? I'd be surprised because of the long relationship with Steve, but I know he's had some aesthetic attraction with Joe since Day One. I remember the gaze he gave me those months ago when he saw Joe sing. Like I said, I'm not expecting nothing to happen.  
  
Joe said something in the letter on this subject and it's been stuck in my head: "I know you don't like to use the 'L-word' and let's be honest, you can be a bit abstract--What I mean is that if you develop those feelings, or whatever the equivalent is, for someone else--tell me. Please. And I'll do likewise for you."   
  
The underlining of "Please" is so urgently done, it appears, because the line is far more pressed into the paper than the letters and it angles upward near the end and cuts through the "-ase"  
  
Maybe I should study graphology: the analysis of hand-writing. I think I would be good at it. Anyways.  
  
Abstract? I mean, I've never experienced polyamory but I'm an open-minded lad.  
  
Nevertheless, this whole exchange has left me with a heavy feeling in my gut. Like I mentioned, I'm not a jealous lad. Maybe jealous in the fact that he may be getting action and I'm not, and is not having to fight for his life and I do; but I could care less if Phil and him get together for a romp.  
  
I think I'm apprehensive. Phil and Joe are both highly emotional people, built to detect attraction like a seismic monitor and act on their primitive instincts and then call it Love. Maybe I'm worried that Joe will mistake infatuation with Phil for Love and then call it off with me. Oh, god. Look at me. Lying awake in my bunk in the middle of the night when there are so many things at stake, and what I think of is whether Joe and I will stay together.   
  
I hear a rustle of starched bedsheets and a creak of rusty bedsprings.  
  
"Are you awake?" an Irish-accented voice whispers. I turn to the voice and find Vivian turned on his side towards me on his bunk, eyes detecting the only form of light, be it insignificant and otherwise unnoticed, in the dark room and reflecting it.   
  
"Yeah. Wait. How did you know? I've been quiet this entire time."  
  
Vivian chuckles lightly. "You usually snore, love. Loudly. The silence woke me up."  
  
There's prolonged silence, being broken but ignored by the sounds of movement in the other bunks, and Vivian says, "Do you want to go outside?"  
  
  
For the record, it snows an ungodly amount where we're stationed; a majority of it happening at night-time. Hopefully this paints a picture of how bloody cold it is outside and how I'm already almost regretting getting out of bed.   
  
"Is there something on your mind?" With every word, a small cloud of vapour escapes Vivian's lips.   
  
"You could say that," I reply, digging the heel of my boot into the snow until I can see the moisture-darkened dirt beneath it.   
  
"I'm not expecting you want to talk about it."  
  
"What makes you say that?"  
  
"Don't act like you're the only person who can read people. You're a bit reserved and cool-headed. If anything's bothering you to the point of visibility, it must be an issue."  
  
"You've got that right." I begin to dig with my other heel. "Really, though, it's not that much of an issue. I'm just troubled at the thought of being troubled by it."  
  
"Alright," Vivian says, and then his eyes travel to somewhere beyond me. I turn to look in his gaze's direction and see Lieutenant Rospondek, about twenty yards away. She's looking upward, mouth opened slightly with a cigarette hanging between her lips, smoke seeping out from the space in between. She's holding a folded paper in one hand and I can see her moving one boot into the ground in a similar manner as I was. "I wonder what demons follow her."  
  
Here, everyone has a demon on their back; we're in hell after all.  
  
Instead, I say, "I could imagine."  
  
There must be something in the air that beckons the restless to come out. You could easily stay in the semi-warmth of the barracks and quietly be eaten alive by thoughts, or you could walk outside into the blistering, uncomfortable cold to do the same damn thing. Maybe it's some chemical imbalance in our bodies that exerts that staying alive instinct during the day, but reverses at night. So we fight and claw to live only to want to die as soon as the sun sets.  
  
Once you feel alone in a building full of people; once you feel alone despite standing next to someone that genuinely wants to help, there's a problem. And I don't mean the typical loneliness of the introvert, I mean literal isolation.  
  
Rospondeck turns in my direction, having heard Vivian and I talk. Despite the distance I can tell that her eyes meet mine; her face is drawn in an expression of apathy, then nods towards me in a mixture of acknowledgement and greeting. She plucks the cigarette from her mouth and steps back so it could land into the hole her heel had dug.   
  
"The weather here is a mirror," she says, her voice travelling from its timbre rather than volume. I try to wrap my mind around the meaning of that statement, but before I could she continues. "Make your first kill, you'll understand."  
  
  
  
 **Day ??? + 1**  
  
  
I'm walking alongside a slow-moving MWMIK with Vivian, accompanied by a bird on the wheel whom he's chatting with and a few others, and I still find myself pondering Rospondeck's words. Obviously she was alluding to some fall from innocence, and the weather is cold and uncaring and lethal like the killers we become; I understand that. It just sounded so strange coming from her; this seasoned soldier who, as far as I can tell, could care less and more-so not be melodramatic about it. And Vivian, who I know has done his share of the hunt; he looked absolutely indifferent to it.   
  
We all have our ways of expression, I suppose, and Rospondeck's cup of tea is being cryptic as hell.  
  
"See you on the other side," Vivian says, and bounces a fist against the vehicle's fender. The driver barks at the gunman at the aft and they speed ahead of us. As soon as they're outside of earshot, Vivian sighs and says, "You know, there's a reason why medics never ride on those things."  
  
"Why's that?" I don't particularly want to know the answer.  
  
"Well." Vivian raises his eyebrows. "Shite. Nevermind, I see some goons up ahead. Live so I can tell you later, alright?" There's a sound of definite gunfire in the distance and a few hollers. Vivian clicks his tongue, gesturing in the direction of the sound with a nod. "That's my cue."  
  
And with that, I'm stumbling around the field, alone; save for the twenty or so other fellow soldiers. Remember that thing I said about loneliness? Well, this is another kind. There's that seemingly harmless loneliness that you feel when you're with a group of people but sort of coast on a different wavelength; the depression-inducing isolation; and then there's this: Abandonment. Here, unless you're a trained medic, you look out for yourself. It's not that we've become conceited and heartless, but in the heat of panic it doesn't matter what the lad or gal next to you is doing. We aren't like the American Marines or Green Berets or some blood-bound squad; whatever family attributes we share amongst ourselves dissipates as soon as we come out here.   
  
It's a dog-eat-dog world, love.  
  
That's why, like right now, as I see an enemy gunman run towards me I instantly scan my environment for Vivian or any other certified medic, only to find myself alone-alone in the fact that there's no one willing to potentially help.   
  
I dive behind an abandoned MWMIK and prop the rifle on my right shoulder; looking through the scope I can see the same gunman run behind another vehicle about ten yards away. The barrel of his rifle bobbles into my view.   
  
I'm constantly baffled by the amount of discarded military vehicles.   
  
There's some blood splattered on the brown-green hood of the other vehicle and a body in the passenger seat. That leads me to believe that the vehicle is still functional; just abandoned. It probably has a good amount of petrol left in the tank as well.   
  
I shield myself behind the MWMIK as a bullet whizzes by.   
  
I graze my fingers over one of my dormant grenades. I am a bit of a pyromaniac, you know. Let's see how big of an explosion this will yield.   
  
I try to remember an approximation of the vehicles distance so I can calculate the best throwing angle, so that I won't have to appear out of my shield for too long.   
  
Vertical distance: roughly twenty yards; object about four feet above of the ground; air resistance will probably affect the grenade heavily considering its mass. The blast radius may also be enough to ignite whatever petrol is left in this one as well  
  
I bite my lip and then thumb at the safety tab. Fuck it. I   
  
**????? _?????_**  
  
  
I run my hands on the surface beneath me: cotton sheets that aren't starched the hell out of.   
  
I must be in the medical barracks. I must have been injured. Right. That makes sense. That would explain this weird nauseating feeling and  
  
"Good morning, love."  
  
It's as if all of the involuntary actions of my body stopped and I have to manually start them myself. Like igniting a car with a half-dead battery; slow and ragged and making weird groaning noises.  
  
"This can't be real," I say, rubbing my hands against my face. I feel like crying. I feel like jumping out of a window because this feels so bloody lifelike but I know it's impossible. This is like lucid dreaming on steroids. This is torture.   
  
I feel the bed slightly dip as he sits down on the edge. A hand rests itself on my thigh.   
  
"Come on, babe, don't be like that," Joe says, and he climbs onto the bed and lays parallel to me. I can see the crater-like membrane of his irises; Mars' surface dyed mint blue.   
  
I feel something sharp, prodding my lower back and the entire image distorts; multi-coloured static like video cassette with damaged tape. There's the faint sound of foreign words, heavily accented in an untrained singing voice.  
  
 _"Ag taisteal dom amach trid chnoic Ghleann Domhain, 's an Mhucais arm mo ch£l."_  
  
What is that, Gaelic?  
  
The prodding hits somewhere on my spine, I can feel it hit the bone and everything goes black. The singing stops, abruptly.   
  
_"Fuck!"_  
  
Something slams into the side of my face. It feels like a hand.   
  
Someone is slapping me.  
  
What the hell is going on?  
  
 _"Wakeupwakeupwakeup-Holy shite, wake up!"_  
  
The blackness begins to reverse-fade. I can see shapes slowly coming to light, like when you stand outside in the sunlight and then walk into a dark room; all you can do is blink and wait. I can see Vivian's face, eye's wide and tear-brimmed and he's holding my face in his hands and he's shaking me.   
  
"Stop," I mumble. "You're going to... give me a concussion if you... don't stop shaking me."  
  
My mouth feels dry and tastes like blood. I wonder why.  
  
Vivian ceases the shaking but his hands linger on me for a moment; they feel wet and I can see flecks of blood on his arms. Vivian exhales raggedly and removes his hands. They make a sticky sound when they part from my skin.   
  
"Okay, love, I'm sorry about this," he moves out of my view and I feel that same sharp pain in my side; gradually increasing until it is white hot. I begin to sit up slightly, just to see what's going on but Vivian says, "Please, don't look. You're not even supposed to be awake for this but this isn't really going as to plan. Sorry about the pain, love, but you're just going to have to suck it up. We can't put you under either; didn't expect the fragment to hit a nerve like it did."   
  
"You're operating on me?"  
  
I'm surprised by how steady my voice sounds.  
  
"Yes, that's what usually happens when you get shot in the back."  
  
"Am I going to get discharged for this?"   
  
Priorities.   
  
"Maybe." God, this sounds like a normal, casual conversation. "You just so happened to be hit by a butterfly bullet, which splits upon impact. Totally experimental thing going on over there, built for lethality if not dealt with immediately."  
  
"Lovely," I groan.  
  
"I've gotten a couple of shards out, but one of them is doggedly going after your spine. Depending on the." I gasp as Vivian tugs out a little piece of molten metal. He's holding it with a set of tweezers and he gestures at me with it. "Unfortunately, this isn't the one I'm talking about. Anyway, depending on how much damage it ensues before I dig it out will decide your fate."  
  
I just realised that I'm in what I believe is the medical barracks.   
  
"Who found me out on the field?"  
  
"I did," Vivian says, voice suddenly sombre; the only part of him in my view is his hair. "You absolutely destroyed some poor sod. It was weird; everything happened at once. I'm running by and I see you throw a grenade and, I kid you not, as soon as it left your hand another lad appeared and shot you square in the back and ran like hell. Just a passing shot, y'know?"  
  
"So, I killed him?"  
  
Vivian exhales. "Toasted him, love."  
  
I wonder if the weather will become my mirror now.  
  
I begin to examine the room. It's a sorry excuse for anything medical, to be honest. Crude equipment and maybe only four bunks; absolutely filthy as well. I imagine that the tools Vivian is using on me are stained with past operations and rusted, but I force those thoughts to somewhere else as I begin to feel my stomach churn. Instead, I try to wrap my mind around the fact that there isn't any x-ray equipment here, or anything visible, yet Vivian somehow knows the travel of the bullet fragments.   
  
Maybe I'm still dreaming.  
  
I feel strange. It must be the pain; it's probably far more intense as what I feel and my body is doing this by going into shock or something, and is distracting me by making my mind wander more than usual; or I'm just losing a lot of blood, and that's what people do when that happens. Right?  
  
Maybe I'm just dying.  
  
I begin to imagine what happened on the field. An out-of-body scene of me laying in the dirt in a pool of blood, dead Hollywood actress-esque with the arms and legs out in a somehow flattering pose. And then, here comes Vivian, running and then sliding through the mud to get to me; cradling my head in his lap.  
  
All we need is a soundtrack. A score composed by Bernstein, maybe. Something dramatic and very Hollywood; something that would go perfect with the melodramatic monochrome picture show.  
  
In reality, it was probably gritty like a Western. No dead actress pose, but some blood-soaked ragdoll with a semi-transparent, red-hued liquid pouring out of the nose and mouth while, in the background, a gas-fire burns while some poor soul screams. The only soundtrack is a machine gun fanfare.   
  
  
I blacked out, I think. One minute I'm thinking about movies, the next minute I'm easing awake to the feeling of Vivian brushing his fingers across my forehead, moving the stray curls of my fringe that have begun to grow back.   
  
"You finished?" My voice sounds gravely.  
  
"Yeah," Vivian says, distractedly. He has the redness in his eyes of someone who hasn't slept in days. "Fished everything out, now we wait."  
  
"For what?"  
  
"The long-term effects," he replies. "Scars usually aren't the only thing left from a wound like that." He sounds very quiet, muffled, and each syllable is strung out as if he's hesitating between each word. Yeah, mate, I get it. You don't want to tell the guy who just went through a partially-conscious operation that he might not be through with the pain.  
  
"Don't spare the gritty details; tell me everything."  
  
"As you wish," Vivian mumbles, dazed. "This was an extremely, ah, difficult task and I was also only using the minimum materials. I'm not even sure if I got everything out, honestly; if I dug any deeper I may have done more harm."  
  
"So, what, you're the only doctor here? Shouldn't there be trained surgeons and whatnot?" Vivian winces slightly at my sudden hostility but I don't spare him any redeeming glance. I'm not apologising for this shit; I could have died. I could still die. This is absolute sod.   
  
I can see a slight twitch in the muscles of his jaw, the covering of his grinding teeth; perhaps his pre-mechanism to retort. "Sorry to be blunt, but we're expendable. They're not going to waste the people with the PhD's and master's degrees on us; they're working with the highly-trained soldiers and airmen. Lack of money and skilled bodies is what the issue is, and they're trying to stretch it already pretty far. And besides, we're pawns; they couldn't care much less."   
  
Vivian leans back into the chair he was sitting in, a detail inexistent to me until now. It's one of those cheap teal lawn chairs, probably donated or something to the cause. He begins to rub at his face and eyes and I feel the flare of my irritability subside into embers.   
  
"You did what your skills allowed you to do, and considering I'm still breathing, you exceeded them," I say. Vivian does one last wipe of the eye and locks his gaze onto mine. "Your effort is appreciated and I really want to thank you for that."  
  
"You know, I was halfway expecting to find wires and titanium inside of you instead of blood and guts," Vivian says, smiling slightly. "Cause you're a bloody robot, I swear. Come back from the dead and you're talking like some English professor on a caffeine-high."  
  
"Oh, we're all machines if you think about it. Squishy robots."  
  
I had been holding onto Vivian's hand this entire time, and I just now noticed. Or, is he holding on to mine?  
  
"'Squishy robots'," Vivian repeats, voice flat. "I'll have to keep that in mind."  
  
"You never told me why medics never ride on MWMIK's. I lived, so I get my answer, right?"  
  
"We don't ride on them because it's like policy. Also you're kind of targeted on those big things and they can't afford for me to die."  
  
Oh, damn. I was expecting a joke.   
  
I exhale through closed teeth and pat Vivian's hand. "Thanks again, mate. I'll, uh."  
  
"Do you need anything else?"  
  
"Yeah. A plane ticket to Sheffield."


	12. Movement XI: March

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What completely screwed over a relatively easy-going night of post-operation snoozing, which was completely induced by the leftover side-effects of various novocaine-anaesthesia cocktails and medically-prescribed tranquilizers mixed with fatigue due to major blood-loss, was a compendium of uncomfortable feelings; a kaleidoscope of vexation.

Movement XI  
 _March_  
  
  
The stage is barren, save for the abandoned Crown of Innocence; a tangled crown of woven bass-strings and burnt, forgotten pages with the words of John Donne and the rumpled sheet-music of Holst. There are three strands of light brown hairs being pulled by the slight movement of air from the crown, as if still reaching out for the scalp they were ripped from.   
  
There are varying shades of red on the curtains; blood on crimson.   
  
No body to be found, as its identity is unimportant; rather, the concept prevails: The Battlefield Casualty.   
  
A figure prowls through the audience walkway; a man with a flushed red face and the wide, cautious eyes that reassures every savage, primitive instinct of humanity. The Biblical fall from grace, left with only one chance for redemption.   
  
_The Enlightened_  
  
  
Something is wrong.  
  
There are four ways, all that I have experienced, in which a person could wake up. The process, I mean; the cause. There is the Sudden, the Ease, the Torture, and then… Well, whatever this is. The first three are common. You have horrible nightmare, for instance, and you jolt awake. Someone dumps water all over you. Your alarm goes off. Whatever. That’s a Sudden. Then there’s the lovely Ease. It’s a Saturday morning and your body decides to think, “Hey, I think I’m done with this whole watered-down comatose shite. Up you go,” and thus you awake at some odd-minuted hour like 10:03 or 9:52 rather than the abrupt 7:30 or 5:00. The Torture was mentioned previously in my monologue; a fourth-wall breaking statement, I know. Refer back in case you haven’t remember.  
  
And then, here’s the coda: This.   
  
This isn’t particularly bad. It could be, I suppose, like right now. Or it could be completely harmless, although a bit inconvenient. Imagine you pass out after being absolutely smashed; I mean completely, batshit wasted. You’re out cold in some poor soul’s bed and nature calls but you’re not there to answer, so the result is, well, spilt piss. When you’re at this point of unnatural unconsciousness, you’ll probably not immediately wake up thinking, “Ah, shit. Not again.” No. You’ll continue to sleep until you feel foreign moisture; a common animal instinct to wake up because something that shouldn’t be happening is happening. This is This. This is basically the slow realisation that something is going on in or on top of your body, and it causes you to wake up in a dazed state, mumbling to yourself, “The fuck?”  
  
Yeah. So that’s what’s happening now.  
  
Well, not the whole pissing-self business. Just the This, in the vaguest sense because I’m not aware yet of what’s causing it.   
  
What completely screwed over a relatively easy-going night of post-operation snoozing, which was completely induced by the leftover side-effects of various novocaine-anaesthesia cocktails and medically-prescribed tranquilizers mixed with fatigue due to major blood-loss, was a compendium of uncomfortable feelings; a kaleidoscope of vexation.   
  
Basically, I felt like I was crawling out of my skin due to some dry feeling. I can’t quite explain it; like when it’s so hot outside that you can feel the natural moisture of your skin evaporating and the cement on the ground might as well crack due to the heat. That was the initial discomfort. What I woke up to was being absolutely drenched and physically shaking because, in reality, it’s bloody freezing outside but I can’t feel it. The only notion that I know it’s the cause is from past knowledge.   
  
Now you get the idea.   
  
Here’s a word I remember from school: Homeostasis. Big fancy biology principle about how your body regulates itself; usually this concerns internal temperature and whatnot. Now, my mind is fuzzy as hell right now, but even still I’m able to find that term and pin it to my current situation. How the hell do I fix it? I’m assuming it’s some piece of my frontal lobe or something that controls that stuff, and I’m not about to perform a brain surgery on myself.   
  
Vivian will know what to do. Yeah, leave it to Viv.   
  
There’s the lad, sleeping on that same teal patio chair. It must be oh-dark-whatever the fuck-thirty.   
  
I’m not going to wake him up. That’s totally out of the question. Just the mere notion that in case I, I don’t know, suddenly go into cardiac arrest or something due to all the medication given that what’s happening right now could easily be some bad side-effect, he’ll be there.   
  
Vivian, the Indispensable.   
  
I tug slightly at the wrappings at my side, peeling off the gauze and trying to bend around so that I can at least get a good view at the wound.   
  
Yeah, no use. I can see the shine of moisture, probably fresh blood, and that’s about it. It looks black in the monochrome dimness. What was I expecting?   
  
I feel dizzy and nauseous and uneasy and all those not-good feelings. Whatever minimum amount of power my body is producing to keep me conscious must be running out, because I can actually feel my brain slow down.   
  
Poof. There goes twenty or so brain cells.  
  
  
I’m at the Paper Sun. Sitting across from me at a window-side table is a man. He has aviator sunglasses pushed up onto his head so that it rumples the slicked-back, dark brown hair. He leans back into the chair, opening up his arms to stretch and consequently opening up his denim jacket so that I can see that he’s wearing a very patriotic American t-shirt.  
  
Who in the…  
  
“Bruce Springsteen,” he says.  
  
Why the hell is Bruce Springsteen in the Paper Sun? Why am I in the Paper Sun?   
  
“You’re dreaming, baby,” he says. “For some reason, you’ve subconsciously decided that I should be the personification of your demons.”  
  
“My demons,” I give him a weary look. “Oh. I see. So, what, are you supposed to be the lad I killed a few days ago? Because I didn’t see his face, right, so I just assigned yours to it. Or, is it because you are the figurehead for American pride. Nationalism. So I kill a guy in the war and you are sort of my involuntary association with it. I get it.”  
  
Bruce Springsteen raises his eyebrows and exhales through his teeth. “Thanks. You saved me from a lotta explaining.”  
  
“No problem.”  
  
“Okay,” he says, cracking his knuckles, “Let’s get on with it, alright? Y’know what you’re supposed to do with your demons? Face ‘em and fight ‘em.”  
  
“That won’t be necessary,” I say, holding up a dismissing hand. “I’m facing you right now, I understand your purpose… There really isn’t a need for us to fight. I’m assuming that I contain some inner guilt about the situation, which was enough to be manifested into you. But I really don’t feel guilty, honestly. Shite like that happens. He would’ve killed me if I hadn’t to him.”  
  
“Liar. Your brain is microwaved baby food at this point, you can’t possibly comprehend your own emotions.”  
  
“Love,” I begin, placing both hands on the table and leaning towards him, “for the first time in my life, I think I truly do comprehend.”  
  
“I’m not trying hard enough, then.” Bruce Springsteen snaps his fingers and dissipates. I stare at the space he was just occupying for a moment, not really feeling much of anything. I should be feeling something though, right?  
  
Although, if I have to throw a ‘should’ into the equation, there must be something wrong. Human morality involves comprehending some guilt, especially in a situation like this.   
  
I mean, the lad probably had a circle of friends and family; a life. So do I. So did I, at least. Who knows at this point, right?  
  
He might’ve been some poor, introverted bloke like myself with a fucked up relationship with someone he left back home; just like me. One more empty promise broken.   
  
Hello, Empathy, my old friend.   
  
I stare at my hands. My fingers have been stained with the raw redness from loading bullets into magazines; I’ve got callouses running over the sides of my indexes, slightly covering the now-subsiding ones from the bass-strings.   
  
The details are exceptional.   
  
When I look back up, I see Madhavi. She’s sitting in the same seat as Bruce Springsteen, and her expression is plausible. Everything about this dream, save for Springsteen’s cameo, has been extremely plausible, actually. It even feels more realistic than the last, if that’s even possible.   
  
“What should I do, Mads?”  
  
Madhavi, having suddenly materialized a cup of tea, looks up from it and locks eyes with me. “Too vague. You have so many things gone wrong, I have no idea which you speak of.”  
  
I know she’s just some projection of my subconscious, but whatever information she dispels to me in which I thought I didn’t know prior is merely me unlocking another portion of my own mind and memory. It’s like that whole “finding the happiness in yourself” kind of concept. Except, maybe, I can find my sanity and some peace of mind.   
  
“Tell me anything. Humour a dying lad, will you?”  
  
“Everything you are doing, all these things that you think are so abnormal and inhuman; they are entirely normal. You aren’t the only person in the universe who thinks this way and, despite what you have always believed, you have never truly analysed anyone. You pick up clues and predict their actions; actions that, honestly, anyone could predict if given the time and brain-power. You aren’t some sorcerer or some cold, rare deity who coasts a mile above everyone else; you are just an intelligent, aware individual. You recently felt empathy and that is natural. As well is your typical lack-of.” I don’t say anything. I have no clue what I was initially asking for, but… What? Even in my dreams, Madhavi has still proven to leave me speechless. “You’re not dying,” she adds simply. “You’ve contracted an infection in your spinal area. You could die, but with your lovely friend’s help, you should… live. One way or another, you’ll be going home soon.”  
  
“How do you… How do I know that?”   
  
Madhavi narrows her eyes. “Just because you are asleep doesn’t mean your ears have ceased hearing. I am everything involuntary; I hear and absorb all data. I am what the scientists tested all those years ago: learning while unconscious.”   
  
“Oh really, eh? So who’s telling you this? Vivian?”  
  
“Yes.” Madhavi takes a sip of her tea, the same intense yet indifferent look on her face. “He’s singing in Gaelic again, by the way, and he’s saying all sorts of things to you. I won’t tell you for the sake of his dignity. Although,” she has an unsure look on her face, as if she’s considering whether or not to say whatever she’s about to utter. She winces slightly, having come to her decision. “Do not make the same mistake with Joe. Whatever things you need to say or feel, lay them out soon… I think it’s a good idea that you wake up now.”  
  
Before I can ask anything else, the room begins to crumble into a darkness that is immediately replaced by the brightness of reality as I open my eyes.   
  
I automatically feel pain in my side. Bloody hell, if I’ve woken up during an operation again I swear-  
  
No. No operation. There’s new bandages on my side; a shade lighter in the places that aren’t stained with a fresh-looking red. Whatever happened, I must have slept through it.   
  
I feel severely unbalanced, though.   
  
Why can I only see the right-half of the room?  
  
Do. Not. Panic. Do. Not. Panic. Do not feel your face. Do not feel for your eyes. Wait for Vivian and he’ll explain it. I’d seen enough movies where the victim immediately reaches for their maimed arm or leg or whatnot, and when the outcome isn’t to their liking they’re reduced to puddles of paranoia. I will not succumb to that.  
  
Also, I’ve been asleep for, what, a day at the most? It must just be some side-affect from being unconscious for so long. I can go with that.  
  
Vivian suddenly appears into what would have been the centre of my vision, oblivious to my alertness. He must have come in from the left of me.   
  
“Why can’t I see?” my voice comes out as a hiss from the lack of usage.  
  
Vivian nearly drops whatever he’s holding, shoulders jerking in shock.   
  
“Oh, my god,” he says.  
  
There is no colour in his face; I can only describe his expression as that of a mortician who, while in their workplace, receives a tap on their shoulder.   
  
“Why do you sound surprised?” My voice is shaking all over the place. Fuck the not allowing myself to succumb. I began to feel the left side of my face, only to find it  
  
Numb.  
  
Lifeless tissue.  
  
Vivian’s eyes are wide. He begins to mouth words but I don’t hear them.  
  
“What? Tell me what the fuck is going on?”  
  
Vivian holds up both hands defensively. “Love, you’ve been unconscious for four days.” He sits down on the edge of the bed. “A very small piece of shrapnel was still in you, and there was a significant amount of lead and other, well, harmful things. This resulted in a very harsh infection near your spine. I almost lost you several times due to your temperature being so high in response.”  
  
I don’t say anything in reply. Vivian sighs. “With that being said, you are lucky that you’re even alive.” He looks unsure and begins feel my forehead until I brush his hand away.  
  
“It can wait. Now tell me why I can’t see out of one eye and why half of my face feels like someone else’s.”  
  
I can actually hear Vivian swallow whatever saliva had built up in his mouth. That’s how quiet it is in here. “Some of your nervous system was… damaged. It wasn’t the direct cause, as it’s typically unknown, but it was a leading factor. I have heard of many people who have been able to cope with this and actually work with-“  
  
“Just tell me what it is.”  
  
“You’ve lost control of the nerves on the left side of your face. Bell’s palsy, to be exact.”  
  
He’s trying to make eye-contact with me, but as soon as I return the favour he focuses in on something else. So this is how it’s going to be now, huh?  
  
“I heard you say ‘cope’,” I say. “So I guess that means there’s no cure.”  
  
“Aye,” Vivian replies, now looking at the ground. After a moment of silence, he says, almost bitterly, “You’re getting your plane ticket to Sheffield.”   
  
I don’t feel happiness, or relief, or anything positive. I’m not even thinking about the future issues I know I’ll have to face; I just feel the initial emotion that accompanies someone when they hear something absolutely unsurprising, usually followed by the phrase: “Oh. Okay.”  
  
A part of me, deep inside where all my sentimentality goes to die, is a little personification of myself, on the floor and throwing a tantrum because I really don’t want to leave Vivian. It’s not romantic or platonic or brotherly, it’s just the fact that this lad has saved my life several times and now I’ll be leaving him here in hell, never to return any favour.   
  
Or, maybe, there’s something else. I’m not sure what in particular—scratch that, I think I do—but I honestly don’t want to put myself through the pain, knowing that I’ll be leaving. Again.   
  
I’m reminded of what Madhavi said.  
  
Then again, that was just myself talking to myself, in a way. There is no factual or absolute meaning in that. It’s merely the emotional side of my mind trying to convince myself to yield to those tendencies.   
  
Vivian rests a hand on my knee. “Before I lose the chance, I really need to tell you something.”  
  
If this is what I think it is, then the timing is bloody exceptional.  
  
“I,” Vivian licks his lips and smiles uneasily, “I… really don’t know what your civilian life is like. I don’t know if you’ve got anyone back at home, but with all that’s happened here—I see past it. So, what I’m getting at is that even though we’re going to be separated by massive distances, you can think of me as someone who’ll be there for you. Alright?”  
  
He’s holding back at least 75% of what he intended to say. I can tell by the palpable tenseness that is still seeping through his demeanour; how he looks slightly regretful but is hiding it quite well, actually.   
  
I brush my hand against his.  
  
“Alright.”   
  
I smile at him, or I try to; it feels awkward as hell and the best I can do is a smirk. Vivian responds with his own perfect, symmetrical version and I feel a piece of my soul wilt and die.   
  
  
For the record, this isn’t infatuation. There is no lustful desire between us. I’m saying that because, right now, I’m laying sideways, my head resting on Vivian’s chest and he’s running his fingers through my hair and rubbing my back and all the other lovely things that accompanies platonic cuddling.  
  
‘Platonic’ is a nice word; Greek in origin and representing all the beautiful and highly underestimated pleasures in life.   
  
I keep thinking about Bruce Springsteen. Not the actual artist but, you know, the lad I killed. Maybe that’s why I feel nothing; having killed I have reached a new level of coldness in the human heart—or lack thereof. I would call it a new level of apathy, but I find myself like right now, dwelling on it and feeling the traces of remorse. Of course, like I mentioned, it was either me or him. But still, I can feel it weigh down on my conscience.  
  
It’s not as if there’s anything I can do to reverse it. Even if I was approached with some deal to switch our places, I still wouldn’t do it. I may be verging on depression or just a poor self-loathing sod, but I’m not suicidal.   
  
“What’s wrong?” Vivian’s hand ceases rubbing and is at rest at the small of my back.  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“You tensed up.”  
  
“I’m just… thinking. About that poor bloke that I, er, toasted as you put it.”  
  
Vivian doesn’t say anything. His fingers move slightly.  
  
Thinking in a surprising yet slightly comforting philosophical approach, I say, “Maybe it’s karma.”  
  
Vivian’s fingers immediately become still.  
  
“If you think of this as a punishment and that you deserve it, it’ll only make you feel worse,” he says. “The only way you live with something life-changing is to just accept it and make the best of it.”  
  
“Since when were you a life coach?”   
  
“It’s a buy-one-get-one free deal when you go into the medical field. Didn’t want to pass up the opportunity.”  
  
  
*  
  
Despite my initially joking manner, I’ve got to be honest that that piece of cliché motivational speaker sod that Vivian said has been stuck in my head. When you’re alone on a long flight, you’re got plenty of time to think. Even more than usual.  
  
I’m staring out the window onto the light-speckled hills of whatever metropolitan area is thousands of feet below this machine and a part of me concludes that if this flight were to tragically crash into whatever ocean we are approaching, I would neither be content nor upset. I definitely don’t want it to happen, yet at the same time, I really don’t want to reach the destination.  
It’s almost daunting, thinking this way.  
  
Who would’ve thought that feeling indifferent would be so painful?   
  
*  
  
I had no expectations of any change or stagnancy in the atmosphere of Sheffield; I simply accepted that the skies were still full of smog and the population of happy couples roaming the streets decreased while the riots and general violence did the opposite.  
  
Honestly, my mind is a bit more preoccupied right now. I have a handful of people and places that deserve far more brain-power and stress-inducing worry.   
  
I, along with three other medically discharged fellows, were the only ones to be dispersed in Sheffield; something that contrasted greatly to the plane-full of amputees and emotionally unstable messes. We all stayed in seats as far away from each other on the bus-ride from Gatwick to home, and for four hours I sat in that bus, leaning forward so that the top of my head was pressed against the back of the seat in front of me. I stared at my newly-returned trainers until the image went abstract, Dali-esque.  
  
I didn’t dare look at the other passengers. They’ll tear you to shreds in their heads because they’ll evaluate and compare your problems to theirs’, Sav. One of them lost a leg and I caught a fleeting glance back on the plane and I knew what he was thinking.   
  
“Every problem is relative and must be compared,” said the typical Human Mind, “If the guy next to me is doing better off, than his problems don’t exist.”   
  
When dogs are injured, they usually lash out, physically. They’ll bite or claw or nearly kill you because they’re afraid and primal. Humanity may be a few notches higher on the intellectual chain, but in the midst of pain and despair, we have developed our own defense mechanisms that can easily hurt anyone nearby. Emotional pain. We evaluate and compare and try to do anything to make ourselves feel better, which usually results in dragging down everyone else. We want attention, so we try to make our problems louder and worse and more pity-earning. It’s a constant tug-of-war between making ourselves seem powerful and weak at the same time.   
  
So, when I get off of the bus and enter the civilian world, I really don’t want to look at anyone.  
  
I don’t want people’s pity; pity fixes nothing.   
  
  
I bought a pair of headsets and a CD player at the airport before I got on the bus. Now that I’m walking in the beautiful and ugly thing that is the urban evening of Sheffield, I think it’s an appropriate time to put them on. I didn’t have any discs on me, obviously, so I bought two while I was there: The Kinks’ “State of Confusion” and David Bowie’s “Hunky Dory”.  
  
“Changes” fills my ears. Nice.


	13. Movement XII: Coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To feel at ease with the atmosphere does not make a person lose the need to change and better it. Rather, what I feel now is just some sensation of mental elevation, as if I've reached a new plane of understanding and experience. *(Final Chapter)

Movement XII  
 _Coda_  
  
  
When I reach Joe's apartment, the sun is rising.  
  
The last track on The Kink's album finishes conveniently as I look upon its faded, unchanged shabbiness. Bottles still litter the second-storey balcony. I can smell cigarettes from the ground.  
  
Here goes nothing.  
  
I knock on the door two times. Two times, and it opens with the quickness of someone expecting it. It must be 5:00am.   
  
Phil's standing on the other side, shirtless and grungy with red-rimmed eyes. Our gazes lock and for what must be minutes we stare at each other. He moves his lips slightly to say something, but closes his mouth and the perpetual loss-of-words continues.   
  
Eventually, he breaks away and runs inside, leaving the front door wide open so I just sort of stroll right in. There's blankets and pillows strewn over the couch, which leads me to believe that Phil was crashed on there before I showed up. Steve's guitar and stand is nowhere to be found. There's a box laying askew from the wall; upon its cardboard hide is the writing of Joe's slanted, all-capital letters: "Sav's Stuff".  
  
  
This feels like a scene from _The Clockwork Orange_. You know, when Alex finally comes home after all the experimentation and whatnot, and he's standing in his parents' living room and everyone is staring at him in fear; shakily drinking tea and attempting to talk to him like he's a human being. Oh, and the replacement son sitting next to him on the couch. Especially that.  
  
I'm not saying that Alex and I are anything similar, but both of us are guilty of murder. There's just a moral, situational line separating us.   
  
Joe and Phil don't know that, though. I think that they're both realistic enough to entertain the idea that I may just have, but there's something else causing a horribly tangible sense of tension. We're all drinking tea in the living room, like in that novel, and Phil is sitting next to me on his couch/bed while Joe is opposite to us in a dining room chair that he dragged in here. Both of them have that sloppy, drunk sadness in their eyes and I really doubt that my presence is what's causing it.   
  
"What happened to your face?" Phil's tone is as nonchalant, similar to what you would use to ask someone if they would like sugar or not.   
  
Joe widens his eyes and shoots the dirtiest look at Phil, expression screaming, "What the fuck is wrong with you?"  
  
"Shite happens when you get shot in the back," I reply blithely.   
  
It must be the time of day, but I'm noticing details very slowly. Maybe it's because I've been trying to avoid direct eye-contact with everyone, but I am just now realising how different Joe looks. He cut his hair, for one thing. Even at its shagginess, it barely touches his ears. I feel slightly insulted for some reason. I think I'm envious of the fact that he most likely had a choice in the matter.  
  
"You don't have to talk about anything you're uncomfortable with," Joe says apologetically. I can't pin down the motive behind the look he's giving me. Typical Joe. The most of a hint I get is that he's holding back some amount of information. Similar to Vivian, they both become fidgety about certain issues and try to cover it up by replacing it with different words.   
  
"You're just as curious as Phil, I know. You speak your mind and I'll do likewise." I take a sip of tea. It's a very poor-quality mishmash of black teas; they were most likely kept loose in the high-caution moist environment, and well past the expiration date--the product of an ill-informed, self-proclaimed tea-meister.   
  
It's the best thing I've tasted in my entire life.   
  
Joe looks absolutely vexed at my reply. Although, it's a reassuring look, sort of as if he's concluded that there is without a doubt that I am the Sav he knows.   
  
He gives a sideways glance to Phil, the following communication of their body language is short-lived yet potent.   
  
"I'm. going to go take a drag." Phil shakily gets up to leave, face suddenly pale.   
  
And thus, Joe and I are alone.   
  
His jaw sets, the muscles moving visibly under his skin. I'm reminded of Vivian again, for some reason. He exhales, rigid to the point that I suspect pain. His eyes follow Phil until he closes the front door behind him. As soon as the door shuts, his gaze locks onto mine.  
  
"Steve's dead."  
  
For a split second, my heart ceases functioning and every flowing path of my blood freezes.   
  
"We got the letter yesterday."   
  
Bracing yourself for the worst never works. You can prepare yourself for the most tragic outcome until you sweat blood, but when it comes down to it actually happening, there is nothing that can save you.   
  
"They attached medical files to the letter, to make it look more official, I suppose," Joe is now staring blankly at the floor, his voice monotonous-calloused, as I think of it. His timbre has the steadiness of someone who has not become immune to emotion, but has developed the ability to visibly supress it; it is the voice of someone who has become accustomed to telling the bad news. "He was shot in the stomach, but he died of blood loss. I did some digging and. that's the most painful way to go. It probably took hours, you know. I can't imagine that. They didn't even find him until it was too late." An image of Steve laying in blood-stained snow emerges into my subconscious and I can't find a way to expel it.   
  
I feel the wound in my side begin to ache, as if my body is trying to emphasize with the newly deceased.   
  
I'm so immersed in myself, trying to not lose my mind. It's the same kind of tunnel vision that accompanies when you're in public and you feel like you need to vomit, so you're absolutely focusing in on not doing that to the extent where you think that if you stare hard enough at that wall or piece of discarded paper that it'll make it subside. That's how difficult this is, how inevitable. You're going to end up spilling your guts and I'm going to lose my fucking mind. I don't even notice Joe rocking back and forth with his face in hands until I hear the slight gasp that escapes the lips only when you're trying to supress sobs.   
  
Just lock us all up, will you.   
  
  
**8.00AM, roughly**  
  
The doors of the Paper Sun are locked.  
  
"Have you spoken to Madhavi recently?"  
  
"No."  
  
Thanks, Joe.  
  
I peer through the window: empty, empty, empty. All of the decorations, the crimson curtains and ornate rugs, are gone. The back-room door is wide open, showing the desolate contents: a lone chair and a broom.   
  
The only reasonable conclusion is that she merely packed up and left. I don't blame her, honestly. The metropolitan cesspool is not the most recommended place of living during wartime conflict, and I know she'd toss aside sentimentality when it came down to something as crucial as this. Maybe she took it even farther, leaving the island itself and buying a one-way flight across the pond. Hello, America.   
  
And, in case you're wondering, she has total monetary capability of doing this. Her profit in the Paper Sun was seemingly unsubstantial, but she lived mainly off of some decent-sized mass of money that she had earned in the past, elsewhere. Now, that I am unsure of. Not only am I stringing out my argument as to how plausible it is she has left, I am trying to convince myself of the most fortunate outcome. For her, at least.   
  
I may have expected it, but in no way does that signify that I condone it. If my assumption is correct, then yeah, good for her. She's far better off over there-any of us would be. Now, my emotions here want to take the stage. They've got a lot to say, mainly things like, "Fuck you, Mads. Fuck you for leaving me here. I'm all alone with a pair of lamenting romantics. I feel guilty for even attempting to grieve of my own losses, and I have no idea what is going on and how to deal with it."  
  
Joe's hand brushes against mine. "We're chasing ghosts here. Let's go."  
  
Ghosts, huh? What a great concept. I'm not superstitious, so when I think of ghosts, I think of it in a literary sense: the shadows of the past, the time-markers of the changing times. So, if that's the case, not only am I chasing ghosts, but I'm surrounded by them. I walk amongst the dead. Oh, and I thought that I was in the Inferno back on the field, but this here is it: the Underworld.   
  
*  
  
Joe's not asking any questions. I find it contradictorily comforting and isolating. I understand that his intentions are for my sake, but I honestly want to talk. I want to just spill everything and vent, but I feel that it would be a punishment for him. No one wants to listen to some maimed ex-soldier rant about his time on the field. If you want to make anyone uncomfortable, tell them about the worst of times you've had. They'll immediately become uneasy and pitying, repeating, "Oh, I'm so sorry," because there's not much else to reply with that doesn't require a good amount of planning and thought. I don't want Joe to feel that way and I definitely don't want to listen to generic apologies.   
  
So, I take it upon myself to ask the questions.   
  
"Why'd you cut your hair?"  
  
It was the most relevant thing to say at this point. We have our routine actions of intimacy, and one of those has always been messing around with our hair. Joe used to always twirl his fingers through my curls and I would pull on his metallic locks during make-out sessions and. You get the picture. Now there's not really anything to get a grip on. It's very unfortunate.  
  
He's stroking the curve of my neck with thumb, sighing, before replying, "I really don't want to explain how I was feeling at the time, as it was. dark. You and Steve had just left and things were changing. So many things, love. I felt like an entirely different person, internally. It was sort of an on-the-whim decision, I suppose."  
  
In modern Asian tradition, to cut off all of one's hair signifies change, forgetting the past, etc. In the more archaic contexts, it usually accompanied banishment. I sense a strange pattern between the two of us and those era-separated customs.   
  
I don't say anything in reply, instead turning my head to look directly forward-towards the ceiling, that is. The eggshell white is stained moonlight blue. Joe's record player is faintly filling the room with Ian Hunter's "You're Never Alone with a Schizophrenic". I feel Joe shift around and through the corner of my eye, I can see him lying on his back, looking up at the ceiling as well.  
  
"I understand," I say. I can see Joe slightly turn his head to look in my direction. "Horrible shite has happened, yeah, but change is a natural response. If we were to stay stagnant after all that's gone down, we wouldn't be alive."  
  
"Quite true," Joe says.   
  
All of this death, veiling our souls and minds, and this talk of what's alive and isn't is making me physically crave the assurance that I'm still breathing. I take his hand into mine and rub my fingers against his palm, the warmth putting some minuscule piece of my mind at ease.   
  
*  
  
I never thought I'd see this place again.  
  
The auditorium is completely empty, save for Phil and Joe and I. I'm sitting on the floor of the stage with an acoustic bass in my lap, Joe is trying to locate the baby-grand, and Phil is screwing around with the stage lights. It almost feels like one of our old rehearsals. Almost. We invited Rick, but it was a bit of an ambiguous reply as we were asking via his mother. "No promises," she had said.  
  
It's not even a rehearsal, honestly. More of an intervention, perhaps. Because nothing is more efficient than throwing four poor souls who are going through a lot of shit into the same room.   
  
I'm trying to play something, but I'm too distracted. Vivian continues to occupy my thoughts. We agreed to write to each other and to somehow meet when the war ended, but I feel that the chances of that happening are too slim to find solace. Besides that, I feel so many mixed emotions on the subject. I love Joe too much to--  
  
Wait. Did I just mentally utter that?  
  
I did. That damn word--and it was so effortless.   
  
I suppose it's time I come to terms with it, that maybe the concept of "love" is more than just a romantic construct. Joe was so right, he with his bloody Jungian ramblings-love is acceptance. Now, I understand. We both left each other to fight our own wars and we returned as different people, physically and all and not at one moment did I think, "Oh god, he's too different. I think I want to end it." And I know it must take a lot for him to continue to be attracted to me; he didn't even bloody question a thing or even point it out.   
  
Phil ditches the light controls and takes a seat on the floor next to me. We don't say anything, but I find myself expectantly looking towards the auditorium entrance/exit where Steve would usually come strolling in after our performances and we would be sitting right here waiting. I think Phil's thinking the same, because I glance towards him to see that he's looking in the same direction with an expression that is a perfect manifestation of nostalgic melancholia.   
  
A harsh scraping sound breaks both of us out of our temporary state of sorrowful pondering. It's Joe, dragging the piano onto the stage.   
  
"Sorry," he says in response to the disruption, then raising his gaze to the same entrance we were just looking at a moment ago. "Looks like someone decided to show."  
  
Rick. I know it sounds a bit insensitive (honestly, are you surprised?), but as he begins to approach the stage, I'm studying his appearance for what exactly has kept him cooped up for so long. No gruesome scars on his face, he's still got two legs and. Oh. Oh, god. His left arm is gone. It's not like in the pictures, where there's at least a stump remaining or something; there's not a piece left, I'm telling you. What in the hell could have caused that?  
  
Everything simultaneously makes more sense and none.  
  
Rick climbs up onto stage, not having nearly as much difficulty as I expected, and joins Phil and I on the floor.   
  
"How're you doing?" Phil asks. The slight movement in the corner of Rick's mouth tells me that he mentally grimaced; he has probably heard that question infinitely since he returned.  
  
"Fine," he replies, almost dismissively. His eyes travel over me and he smiles slightly in a sad, empathetic way. I can't explain the kind of connection we just had; it's sort of like sharing an inside joke with someone and everyone outside of the ability of comprehension has to be told, 'oh, you had to be there'. What we just had was essentially a mutual and mental praising to the preferred deity that someone finally understands. "Glad to see you again."  
  
"Likewise," I say.   
  
For a moment there's silence. I appreciate it, but I can see Phil looking a tad bit uneasy. Joe, probably realising how out of place he is standing by the piano, joins us as well. Just us four dudes, all sitting together on the floor. Kum-ba-yah.   
  
And, let me tell you, it does feel pretty godly. Phil had abandoned the controls after toggling them so that one of the major stage lights shined directly down on me, and still is now for that matter. I didn't really notice it until recently because it's starting to make the floor a bit warm. Nevertheless, it adds almost a theatrical atmosphere--this massive, bright light flooding the wood of the stage and casting little dust motes everywhere, and here I am in the centre of it all. I feel that a choir of French horns should start playing something angelical; position some tubas and euphoniums at every corner of the auditorium so that their low voices can echo like on the walls of an ancient cathedral. Hell, the four of us should put on some monk's robes and begin to recite some Gregorian chants.   
  
I wouldn't call this the product of feeling happy or content. I know it's not joy, because I feel this deep and heavy feeling in my soul that has direct correlation to Steve and Vivian and a lot of other dark and messy stuff. The genuine feeling of happiness would be very premature at this point. And I believe that to feel content is to be stagnant-and we all know what I said earlier about stagnancy. To feel at ease with the atmosphere does not make a person lose the need to change and better it. Rather, what I feel now is just some sensation of mental elevation, as if I've reached a new plane of understanding and experience.   
  
There's a word for that:  
  
Enlightenment.   
  
*  
  
There's an empty bottle of vodka balanced on the balcony railing. At a point in its existence, it contained one of those generic fruity vodkas, like the kind you'd buy at a Sainsbury's for ten quid. The sunset is causing the glass to reflect all sorts of pretty hues-pastel orange and sorbet red. I wonder if the presence of alcohol in that bottle would have yielded something different; it could have possibly distorted the colour or at least the light travel, creating an entirely different image.  
  
Alcohol tends to have that effect.  
  
I place both of my elbows on the railing and cup my face with my hands, peering down onto the street below me like I've done so many times before on another balcony off of another building. I feel like a nomad.   
  
Down below, I see a woman walking. Her brown curls are bouncing in sync to the motion of her long-legged strides. Thin and straight-backed, she moves with the grace of a model that has the frail, lightweight bones of a sparrow. Simona, from the Paper Sun--the bird that looks like a bird.   
  
I don't say anything, but as she's about to pass directly below the balcony and outside of my view, something causes her to look up. Our eyes meet and her walking ceases. Before I can ask, she says, "Madhavi's gone. Day after you left, she booked a flight to New Jersey."  
  
"Of all places, and she chose New Jersey?"  
  
Simona shrugs. "Maybe she's a fan of Springsteen. I dunno." She waves a hand and then continues on her walk, disappearing out of my sight.  
  
  
No one knows I'm here.  
  
Its 1:00AM, roughly, and I couldn't sleep and didn't want to give whatever unwanted thoughts the chance to fester. So, I do what any sane person would do: I'm burning incense in the back room of the Sparkle Lounge.   
  
Not much has changed here. Even the sunflower is still, somehow, in full bloom. I'm lying on my back on that same magenta couch and am staring at the ceiling. The cracks in the plaster make a mosaic-like image if you look long enough, like identifying constellations.  
  
I'm not here to supress thoughts, but to let them flow.   
  
Earlier, before I began burning incense and trying to throw myself into an existential crisis, I had done some exploring.  
  
For every cinema screen, there is a projector. Sometimes, in larger theatres, there's an individual room for each projector, as the equipment is rather large and cluttering. Although, this cinema is a bit small so, consequently, there are only two projector rooms in the entire building. I knew this beforehand because Phil and I used to do all sorts of illegal, recreational things in one of the rooms. Although, it's the other that has been left unscathed for what I assume would be years.   
  
This said projector room was an absolute mess. I could barely push open the door as there were boxes upon boxes of multi-decade old posters and film reels blocking the way. Once I entered the room, though, it felt as if I'd walked into something that was a mix between a horror film and a Ray Bradbury novel. I expected the electrical circuits to be archaic and rusted past usage, so I brought a flashlight. And as I shined it in front of me, I saw a single, dim bulb hanging from the wire. It was slightly moving in response to the sudden flow of air from the open door and everything else was dead and still, covered in dust.   
  
It was not the potential epiphany of time and decay that caught my attention, but the abandoned box of records next to an equally ancient phonograph.   
  
The thing about working in a projection room at a movie theatre is that you get a lot of time to yourself. "Work" is sitting in this musty room, watching the moving reel to make sure none of the film gets caught or that the entire thing doesn't burst into flames-which happens very often, apparently. So, concerning projectionists, it wouldn't be too surprising to find out that they had snuck an entire record player and disks into the room just so they could have something to listen to in between films while they're isolated. Or, maybe, if it's a rather loud film, they could jam out for a little while during the movie as well.   
  
Now, I don't know why any of this is still here-but that isn't the point. The point was that in that moment, when I was thinking about all the reasons why someone would put up the trouble to drag all this junk upstairs into the cluttered little room, I realised that people would go a hell of a lot out of their way to distract themselves from boredom. Which is exactly what I'm doing right now.   
  
So, why did I feel the need to explain all of this? Because, right now, as I'm lying on that couch, I'm listening to Leonard's Bernstein's "Overture to Candide" and I didn't feel like giving the vague explanation of "I found an old phonograph and some classical records so I'm now listening to them," and leave it as that.   
  
The deal is that I'm a thirty-minute walk from Joe's apartment in an abandoned movie theatre, listening to some music that I swear is the audible manifestation of my disorganised thoughts, and it's past 1:00am.   
  
And what this resulted in was an epiphany-the answer to a question that I used to ask myself so often as an excuse to isolate myself from the rest of humanity.  
  
Is it human nature to ask a lot of questions?  
  
Yes, yes, yes. Because context is everything, lads and birds and whathaveyou--context is everything. We live in a universe that will most likely never give you the reason or circumstance on a silver platter.   
  
If you want to even attempt to comprehend this clusterfuck of colours, sounds, shapes, key changes, machine gun fire, and broken bass strings--you've got to make some inquiries.   
  
  
**THE END**


End file.
